My bi-yearly McDonald’s coupons came today. They were waiting for me when I got home, so I grabbed them, pushed past my wife and ran into the bathroom where I tore into them like an eager child on Christmas morn'.
See, what I do is go to McDonald’s and get the two-can-dine deal. Do two dine? No. Just me. I go to a McDonald’s location where I won’t see anyone whose opinion I value. I order a Big Mac meal with an ice tea, then give a thoughtful pause and proceed to order a Quarter Pounder meal with a Diet Coke (I figure the two vastly different beverage choices will throw the counter person off my trail; if I feel they’re not buying it, I lean in and deliver a, “Ya know, the wife likes the Diet Coke” and this seals the deal). I conclude by throwing them the two-can-dine coupon as though my financials don’t really demand that I use it, moreso that I’m a considerate consumer who wants to support their marketing campaign. I then take both the meals and waddle rapidly towards the car.
The next step isn’t as easy as you’d think. I take great pains in finding a place to park that will offer me the solitude and serenity that such a gruesome undertaking deserves. Most recently, I drove up beside a quiet section of the Welland Canal. It was raining. Perfect. Very few passers by to interfere. And yet, this was a busy enough area that I had some entertaining visuals while I double fisted the two sandwiches into some unholy Big Quarter Mac Pounder amalgam that would make Ronald shed tears of blood.
Typically when I’ve completed this task, I feel emotionally and physically drained. Disposing of the horrifying aftermath has to happen fast, otherwise the reality that a 30-year-old man is acting like a spoiled 13 year old would take hold. I’ve never let it reach that point, but I gotta figure that following that last performance the murky depths of the Welland Canal would have been one fat-guy-in-a-Toyota richer. More often than not, the McRefuse gets driven to a Niagara Parkway rest stop where it’s unceremoniously tossed from my window into a waste bin.
Only thing left is to return home. Once there it seems I always find myself greeted with a, “Dinner’s ready.” Now, if I don’t eat, the jig is up, so Barnhardt does what Barnhardt has to do. He won’t look the fool. Not like this.