am a person who is of the pseudo-Catholic religion, as in the sense that I believe in God, but in a different way. I don’t go to a church every Sunday; I am much more than that. I don’t simply eat the body of Christ in those stupid little crackers (made by nuns), or who drinks bad wine they call his blood- no. I am better than that. I am a disciple of our time, knowing that God is in more than just paper flavoured crackers and cheap alcohol.Every day, I go to the McDonalds down the street from my house, and I order a super sized fry and a large diet coke, no ice. This- this is God, this is his reigning light shining down on me, and every single bite of that crispy golden fry is a sign from that wonderful man upstairs saying “Honey, I meant for it to be this way”. The Golden Arches that lead into this majestic place are like a sign that this is a temple, to be admired and appreciated- beloved, even. For this place is like no other. It provides us all with a place to go, delivering us quality, delicious food that is ready in a single instant. And what everyone doesn’t seem to realize, is just how right I am.
Whenever I offer my ideals to the Vatican (in a lovely, self-addressed, recycled envelope, might I add) I get no response. I send letters to my politicians, to my teachers, to everyone I know- and I’ve only gotten one reply. I sent a letter to my best friend, Sonny, and he told me I needed to stop tripping on acid. Sonny’s a dick, he knows acid isn’t holy. Nothing is holy like French fries.
I suppose this would all be much more logical if I explained this in further detail, and let me do so now. French fries and diet coke are truly the body of Christ. In Church we are told that they are gifts he sacrificed, that every one of his disciples recognized this. That all is to eat, and drink, from him, and show admiration, for his body is a release of our sins. Frankly, I’ll be honest with you all. Whenever I strutted up to the altar, and my priest put that piece of cardboard crap on my tongue, all I could ever think was “Fuck, this tastes terrible”. Not once did I ever feel good, feel nourished, and… forgiven. But when I walk into that McDonalds, and I wait in line, I see everyone else feel the same thing as me.
Each person goes, and they order their combo, and as they sit down with their tray, and eat that fry- their faces change. A look of sheer bliss emits from that forty something woman who’s clearly had some troubles at home because she cansmell that fry with just her eyes, because she feels satisfied. Nothing else matters when she eats that French fry, nothing at all. It’s just her, and that piece of golden heaven. And what better way to wash it down than with the drink of the people- the drink of America! Diet Coke. I mean, even Lady Gaga knows it, she wore those cans in her hair not for product placement, not for the money- but for the religion she’s spreading around the world. My religion.
I’ll openly admit that Ronald McDonald isn’t a saint, nor is the Hamburger Caper really a Judas of our time, but what I’m getting at is more than that. This franchise, this… set of churches, one could argue, supply us all with everything church offers us, take out the prayers and discussions of Jesus. But that’s probably a legal thing, these places get gun fights all the time for getting orders wrong- you don’t want to implicate Jesus into that little mess. But here we have our little altars, our trays of redemption, hymns of the Top 40 hits running into our ears. Children laughing and playing… this is what religion is to become. It’s a Pop Culture phenomenon, the Church of the New Millenium!
Everyone will join me when they understand how right I am, how wrong they’ve all been. They’ll turn away from this Pope, and they’ll look to me as I create a revolution. This French fry is the body, this carbonated heaven is the blood- delicious, delicious redemption for every sin I have ever committed. And Sonny? Sonny can fuck it.
——
“Yeah, sir… that’s as far as he got.” The EMS medic said simply, turning to look at his superior with a sort of amused expression. It was one of his first calls of the night, an issue with a teenage girl at the local McDonalds.
The older man gave a soft sigh, taking the set of napkins from the younger’s hands. “The Church of the New Millennium, McDonalds a temple? The servers said he was a regular, but they never mentioned anything like this.”
“Well, what do we do here, sir?” It was an awkward situation, that was for sure. The girl was no older than seventeen, and here she was, collapsed against the bench in the restaurant, half leaning towards the floor, half still in her seat.
“The manager said she’s been going here for years, every day ordering that same thing- a super sized fry and a large diet coke.”
“No ice.”
“Don’t be a smart ass. It was inevitable she was going to die if she kept going, her arteries clogged and she went through cardiac arrest- what is one to expect here?”
The older man looked to the younger, eyes darkening slightly in displeasure. He should’ve known what had happened here, the signs were obvious. For crying out loud, she was over 300 pounds, and sitting in a McDonalds, they’d gotten a call about a cardiac arrest.
But the younger man still looked confused, and laughed faintly. “No sir, I knew that. I was referring as to how we would get her out of the bench.”
Looking down at the obese corpse, trapped in its altar, the younger man thought it’d be best to leave her where she was, leave her in her heaven.
