"You gave me broccoli, Mommy. Now, it is time for your punishment."
Besides the fact that part of Northern Florida serves as Muricah's Prison Mecca, there are some bumfucked areas that scream to be mysteriously turned into ghost towns by, say, a fire that engulfs the entire area of North Florida. It may be the only way to properly disinfect the area and allow for a much-needed reboot. For instance, the McDonald's in Baldwin, a hokey town just off Interstate 10 definitely needs to be set ablaze, then doused with one metric ton of a mixture of Lysol and bleach, and then set ablaze again (you know, just to make sure nothing survives).
If Baldwin, Florida, was a Baldwin Brother, it would wear this fucking suit.
The best way for me to explain what happened when my boyfriend pulled into McDonald's Store #5030 to stretch our legs and get a bite to eat is to show you the complaint I sent on McDonald's very own website immediately after leaving.
Here it is, in all its glory:
My boyfriend and I, under the false idea that a McDonalds restaurant would be more sanitary to rest in than the likes of a gas station, chose to eat a quick lunch and relieve ourselves after the first half of our long journey home at your store in Baldwin, Florida. Upon entering the restaurant, my urge to urinate overcame me, and I quickly jog-walked into the women's bathroom to relieve myself. Although my initial, intended action was to sit on the toilet seat, a more challenging feat - that of not contracting a venereal disease from the toilet seat - was in effect, which resulted in me subjecting myself to a hovering position that required the thighs of a clydesdale and the accuracy of a sniper in order to successfully excrete without getting it all over myself and ultimately have to ride home without pants. That bathroom was nastacular. I mean, hovering didn't offer me the solace enough to keep me from having my doctor perform an STD panel when I returned home. My boyfriend, who is in the military and very accustomed to relieving himself in unsanitary conditions, saw the condition of your men's restroom and immediately left, opting to risk a kidney infection over being exposed to the noxious excretions and debris that defined your bathroom.
Also, that's way too much mayonnaise to put on a deceptively healthy "chicken" sandwich. It's one thing to spend all that money on LCD televisions for the entertainment of your patrons, but sacrificing sanitation is downright criminal. It causes me to wonder what your own bathroom at home looks like. Seriously, that shit is gross. CLEAN UP YOUR CRAP BATHROOMS, OR YOU'RE GOING TO GIVE YOUR MOM DISENTERY. JESUS H. CHRIST! Smooches!
This is significantly easier, compared to the McDonald's Challenge.
He died, so that I may not hear stupid girls crying about menses.
Brushing off the menstrual mentality of a McDonald's shift crew, the boyfriend and I figured it was all part of the common experience and wandered into the dining area to get a table. I don't think any of the tables had been cleaned since the premier opening of this yellow and red hellhole. There were fries everywhere, like a fucked up, greasy spin-off of a steakhouse that has one of those peanut-shell infestations. Athletes Foot of Mercury, that shit was disgusting.
It was impressive. Even my gross, depraved self wanted to barf on everything in the hopes that my stomach acid would disinfect at least the table we were using. And yes, we didn't stay there long.
In the end, I'm happy I didn't eat there. However, the boyfriend did. He's still alive and seems to be well, but I'm sure there was a shared moment in our lives that we could have died from dysentery-gonorrhea in the form of a McRib sandwich while the sweaty, obese patrons stared at an LCD television while shoving lukewarm chicken nuggets smothered in Chipotle BBQ sauce into their slobbering mouth-holes. And they probably wouldn't have cared one fucking bit.
This is all making me hungry.
It's not like we swore off McDonald's forever, though. We just swore off Florida forever. Because it sucks. A lot. And we haven't heard back from Baldwin's star restaurant since we've returned, which can mean two things: they never got the message, or McDonald's sent their "Cleansing Team."
"Let me baptize you in the fryer, my children!"