fast food nation power go!
Fast Food Nation
6/14/02
Now I don't want to get off on a rant here, but this is such a fast food nation, we are like 275 million radio contest winners, who have been put into a wind chamber and have 30 seconds to grab as many grams of the polyunsaturated fat swirling around us as we can, and stuff it into our crushed velour, supersized stretch warmup pants.
As a matter of fact, the main problem with fast food for most Americans is that it isn't fast enough. People get pissed off when their microwave dinner takes more than three minutes to cook. You know, the only phrase more horrifying to a single guy than "That's OK, baby, it happens," is "uncover and stir halfway through."
Personally, I love fast food. As a matter of fact, I want a meal that can be eaten without arms or even teeth. I want a pneumatic tube in my house with a scanner that will read my mind, select my food and then shotgun a pre-chewed burger and fries bolus directly into my a-hole while a computer simultaneously deducts the cost from my ATM.
People criticize fast food restaurants saying the sameness to their menus and building styles subvert local tastes and values. Well, guess what, that's exactly what makes them so popular. When was the last time you and your hungry family were driving down a deserted interstate in Macon, Georgia only to be relieved to see a magic marker sign for "Uncle Ray's Hand Strangled Chicken Yurt"? Try explaining to a six year old that the nasty case of waterpoop he got from "Uncle Ray's Extra Spicy Beak Fritters" is actually a badge of honor in the war against the gross commercialism of the American landscape.
Some people complain about the enforced uniformity of fast food all around the world, but personally I like the dependability. I enjoy the comfort of knowing I'm going to be tasting the exact same BK Broiler whether I've just been fighting Tamil rebels in the employ of the Sri Lankan government, or getting my nipples dermabraded to an elegant sheen in a back-alley clinic in Bangkok.
America is the fattest nation on the planet, and getting fatter every year. There's something sick about the fact that we can go into a porn shop and buy edible underwear with a 44-inch waistband.
Many people in the world do not eat at the most popular fast food places because of religious beliefs. These, coincidentally, also happen to be the same religions that are threatening each other with nuclear war, and have no trouble enslaving their own people in the name of their gods. But, hey, I'm all for personal choice if it keeps the lines short.
I never worked at a fast Food restaurant because I didn't seem have the right people skills for it. I don't know what it is, but I get pretty sarcastic in a paper hat. Yeah, go ahead, make me wear papyrus on my cranium for minimum. See how happy that happy meal is.
Fast food is not only delicious to the taste, but also very soothing to the psyche. There's nothing I love better than going through a drive-through window on a cold day, getting that perfectly balanced bag, setting it between my legs and driving away while that mothering heat radiates through my lower extremities. It's not sexual, it's sensual.
No, seriously. Everyone in here has, at one time or another, been eating french fries in their car, dropped some, and actually dug into their crotch to find them and eat them. That's right, you ate something that was a fabric wall away from your nasty place. I wish I could supersize my nasty place.
A single fast-food hamburger can contain the meat of up to 100 different cows. Health experts see that as a recipe for the rapid spread of food-born illness. I see it as a beautiful metaphor for the capacity of living beings to work together in perfect harmony, once they've been killed and ground up. But maybe I'm just a sentimental old fool.
We love the convenience of fast food. We are a generation who not only grew up on it but also grew huge on it. And we should be proud of our newfound girth. I want to live in a nation that is not upset by special orders; I want to live in a nation where they do it all for me; where I am free to run for the border or think outside the bun; a land full of food, folks, and fun, where I really can have it my way; a land where every fold in our stomach is a salute to the double cheese burger; every triple chin is a Kudo to chili fries; every extra notch poked into our belt with a pen knife, a cheer for a extra-thick pepperoni pizza; and every heart attack a standing ovation for all the high calorie, mega-salted, cholesterol-laden goodness that has made this country into a fat, mean, fighting machine that if threatened is entirely capable of rolling over, falling out of our isolationist hammock, and squishing our enemies to death with our immense, cellulite-riddled, manifest-destiny ass. God bless fat America!
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
6/14/02
Now I don't want to get off on a rant here, but this is such a fast food nation, we are like 275 million radio contest winners, who have been put into a wind chamber and have 30 seconds to grab as many grams of the polyunsaturated fat swirling around us as we can, and stuff it into our crushed velour, supersized stretch warmup pants.
As a matter of fact, the main problem with fast food for most Americans is that it isn't fast enough. People get pissed off when their microwave dinner takes more than three minutes to cook. You know, the only phrase more horrifying to a single guy than "That's OK, baby, it happens," is "uncover and stir halfway through."
Personally, I love fast food. As a matter of fact, I want a meal that can be eaten without arms or even teeth. I want a pneumatic tube in my house with a scanner that will read my mind, select my food and then shotgun a pre-chewed burger and fries bolus directly into my a-hole while a computer simultaneously deducts the cost from my ATM.
People criticize fast food restaurants saying the sameness to their menus and building styles subvert local tastes and values. Well, guess what, that's exactly what makes them so popular. When was the last time you and your hungry family were driving down a deserted interstate in Macon, Georgia only to be relieved to see a magic marker sign for "Uncle Ray's Hand Strangled Chicken Yurt"? Try explaining to a six year old that the nasty case of waterpoop he got from "Uncle Ray's Extra Spicy Beak Fritters" is actually a badge of honor in the war against the gross commercialism of the American landscape.
Some people complain about the enforced uniformity of fast food all around the world, but personally I like the dependability. I enjoy the comfort of knowing I'm going to be tasting the exact same BK Broiler whether I've just been fighting Tamil rebels in the employ of the Sri Lankan government, or getting my nipples dermabraded to an elegant sheen in a back-alley clinic in Bangkok.
America is the fattest nation on the planet, and getting fatter every year. There's something sick about the fact that we can go into a porn shop and buy edible underwear with a 44-inch waistband.
Many people in the world do not eat at the most popular fast food places because of religious beliefs. These, coincidentally, also happen to be the same religions that are threatening each other with nuclear war, and have no trouble enslaving their own people in the name of their gods. But, hey, I'm all for personal choice if it keeps the lines short.
I never worked at a fast Food restaurant because I didn't seem have the right people skills for it. I don't know what it is, but I get pretty sarcastic in a paper hat. Yeah, go ahead, make me wear papyrus on my cranium for minimum. See how happy that happy meal is.
Fast food is not only delicious to the taste, but also very soothing to the psyche. There's nothing I love better than going through a drive-through window on a cold day, getting that perfectly balanced bag, setting it between my legs and driving away while that mothering heat radiates through my lower extremities. It's not sexual, it's sensual.
No, seriously. Everyone in here has, at one time or another, been eating french fries in their car, dropped some, and actually dug into their crotch to find them and eat them. That's right, you ate something that was a fabric wall away from your nasty place. I wish I could supersize my nasty place.
A single fast-food hamburger can contain the meat of up to 100 different cows. Health experts see that as a recipe for the rapid spread of food-born illness. I see it as a beautiful metaphor for the capacity of living beings to work together in perfect harmony, once they've been killed and ground up. But maybe I'm just a sentimental old fool.
We love the convenience of fast food. We are a generation who not only grew up on it but also grew huge on it. And we should be proud of our newfound girth. I want to live in a nation that is not upset by special orders; I want to live in a nation where they do it all for me; where I am free to run for the border or think outside the bun; a land full of food, folks, and fun, where I really can have it my way; a land where every fold in our stomach is a salute to the double cheese burger; every triple chin is a Kudo to chili fries; every extra notch poked into our belt with a pen knife, a cheer for a extra-thick pepperoni pizza; and every heart attack a standing ovation for all the high calorie, mega-salted, cholesterol-laden goodness that has made this country into a fat, mean, fighting machine that if threatened is entirely capable of rolling over, falling out of our isolationist hammock, and squishing our enemies to death with our immense, cellulite-riddled, manifest-destiny ass. God bless fat America!
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.