The sun was setting as I put the finishing touches on my lipstick, checking my reflection in the tall, rococo mirror above my dressing table. A breath of wind swept through the open window, catching a stray tendril of my long, honey-blonde, flowing hair, and securing it absent-mindedly with a gilt clasp, I let my gaze drift out through the gossamer curtains, out over the green and luscious hills beyond. Adjusting the satin strap of my diaphanous coral-pink gown, I thought of my beloved, waiting for me out beyond the stand of oaks. The last sliver of sun slipped below the horizon, bringing night to McDonaldland.

My beloved! He was known to most people by his formal title, �Mayor,� but I thought of him simply as Eric. Eric McCheese, mayor of our little burg. We met by chance at the bakery, where he was officiating at the dedication of a new oven rack. I was mesmerized by his command of the crowd, and by the disproportionately tiny hat balanced on his giant cheeseburger of a head. When his eyes rested on me, my pulse quickened, and I feigned sudden interest in a nearby dough divider.

Deeply moved, I left immediately after his speech, but he caught up with me as I argued with the meter maid who�d unfairly ticketed my car, simultaneously taking my hand and dismissing the ticket. I couldn�t tear my eyes away from his stare. After that day, we met every night, in secrecy due to his station and his harpy of a wife. Blissfully, we would romp in the kitchen, tossing chopped lettuce and kissing like teenagers. Sometimes, the Fry Guys would join us for a riotous frolic in the used grease, showering me with their triple-thick Shamrock Shakes�

And so once again, my attempt at erotic McDonald�s-related fan fiction has broken down into incoherent rambling. I wouldn�t be thinking about McDonald�s at all if it weren�t for friendly local columnist Starshine�s offering in Sunday�s paper, a think piece entitled I�m sorry, I like McDonald�s in which she explains that she, well, likes McDonald�s and refuses to hide it any longer. I admire her courage in standing up for this cause�the love that dare not speak its name is silent no more! Starshine likes McDonald�s! She is not afraid to say it!

As she explains it, in her cheerfully hyperbolic and alliterative style, there are many reasons to like McDonald�s, including:

• Predictability


• Proximity


• Affordability

Who could resist it?

Starshine likens the offerings at McDonald�s to �astronaut food,� in that it is �brilliantly portable� and �intriguingly shaped.� When I read that, I tried to remember what astronaut food looked like. Neither the rod-shaped protein stick nor the rectangle of freeze-dried ice cream are what I�d term �intriguing,� and the same could be said for the hamburger (circular), the Filet-O-Fish (rectangular), and the cheeseburger (also circular). Wherein lies the intrigue? Is she talking about Chicken McNuggets?

Additionally she seems unclear on the nomenclature of various shapes. For instance, she refers to the egg in an Egg McMuffin as �cylindrical,� which seems a slight exaggeration. I haven�t seen an Egg McMuffin in a while, but I recall that the egg comes in more of a disc, about a quarter of an inch high. One might as well call a hamburger patty a cylinder. (Oh, and I will!) By the same token, those onion shreds aren�t properly cubes, but this is not geometry class here.

Starshine�s central point seems to be: Don�t judge people who eat at McDonald�s, because it�s FUN to eat at McDonald�s! It�s nostalgic! It�s greasy and gives you stomach aches, but who cares because there are FRIES! To support the pro-McDonald�s stance, she lists some �surprising folks� she�s seen during what she terms her �annual trips,� including bodybuilders, elderly couples, and businesswomen, as if her readers have avoided McDonald�s due to insufficient diversity of the clientele. It is unfair, she explains, that these innocent McDonald�s patrons should be judged by �watchdog soy junkies,� and manages to miss the point that a major complaint against the corporation is its aggressive marketing of fatty, sugar-filled food to kids.

But hey. It�s predictable! It�s close-by! It�s nostalgic! So don�t be a burga hata, y�all.