I don't want to encourage fast food restaurants to start placing tip jars next the registers, but I wish there was a more direct way of saying hats off to the young lady at the register who made sure I got a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit even though they were switching the signs from breakfast to lunch as I walked in the door. She went to the back and made sure they made it. It's perhaps a sad state of affairs when going just a bit beyond the call of duty feels so epic. But it made my stomach's morning.
Speaking of the cruel glow of the Golden Arches, I've been thinking a lot about the sad life of the Hamburglar today. He's some sort of sub-literate (robble, robble, robble...) Micky D's.addict. Sure, he's got a definite fashion sense -- the patterned tie with the stripes is daring and the cape is wicked fey -- Ian McKellan would certainly play him in the live action McDonaldland film. But where did he come from? And why can't he speak? And what kind of prick is Ronald McDonald? He gets this robble-robble Nell hooked on his product and then faster than you can say "chicka, chicka, chickamcnuggets" he denies him his fix. Billions and biliions served, but at what cost, clown, at what cost!
