McDonald's: The Trash It Is
By “occasion,” I meant a confluence of convenience, an absolute lack of standards, and a complete absence of taste, all heightened by a seriously compromised bank account.
So I slummed.
There’s two kinds of McDonald’s patrons. The kind with the decency to clean up after themselves, and the kind with none: The Filthy Pig Bastards.
Now, I know, I probably strike you as a Filthy Pig Bastard. Surprisingly, no. I know how to crumple paper and I realize what those big boxy receptacles are. Rumour has it they’re trash cans.
So imagine my surprise, after tossing my tray’s contents into the box-like container thing, when an electronic voice sputtered, “Thank you” at me.
Yes. It talked to me.
I don’t like living in a world where inanimate objects can speak.
But if I have to, then let’s raise the stakes. I say all inanimate objects’ voiceboxes should be voiced by George Carlin. And pull no punches. Here’s what the Carlin Trash voice would say:
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I’ll tell you one object I wish could speak: My television (etc) remote control. I want two things. I want a “page” button on my television for when I’ve lost my remote. I could push the button and then a homing device in the remote control would respond, alerting me to its location. In a perfect world? It’d share its spot with me. “Master Steffani, I am under your ass.”
(But you’d hope I’d know that already, right? It’s hypothetical, people. Work with me.)