kleenexwoman | If they're gonna drown, shove some fries in their mouth

So after two weeks of searching and three missed interviews, I finally managed to land a job. (None of the bastards who said, "We'll call you!" ever did. The only way you can get a fucking job is to badger and fawn over the interviewer until you can get them to say those four little words, "Come in at ten.") I'm living the very first step of the American dream--flippin' hamburgers at McDonald's for $6.75 an hour.

The place really is one big metaphor for the American dream. It's cheap and ubiquitous, the distinction between the middle class and the lower class is largely an illusion (studies show that a majority of Americans who consider themselves to be part of the middle-class are in fact living below the poverty line, and there is a difference of about three fries between the small and regular size fries), and if you swallow too much of it, you will die from a heart attack before you are sixty.

So do you want to know what the SECRET OF MCDONALD'S is? Why they are the most successful fast-food franchise in the world, why their burgers are so disgustingly addictive, why the word "McDonald's" has come to be synonomous, for better or for worse, with the rise of American globalization and homogenity?

*WARNING WARNING WARNING TRADE SECRETS AHEAD*

It's simple: Crack cocaine in the cooking oil, one part crack rock to five parts oil. Hook 'em young, keep 'em coming back for more.

No, that's not it. It's because Ray Kroc wasn't just a ruthless businessman, he was also a high priest of the Senior Citizen Gods (not as old as the Elder Gods, but still pretty old). There's a little altar in each McDonald's with a statue of Ronald McDonald holding burgers, fries, shakes, and the severed head of the Burger King in his many tentacles. Every morning, employees are required to mumble apostrophe-filled prayers and sacrifice the first Egg McMuffin of the day on the altar before opening for business.

That's not really it either (and do you think I'd really tell you if it was? Hahaha!). Actually, the secret to the success of McDonald's appears to be their computerized training program. Instead of watching a perfectly normal orientation video or just being shown around the place, I got sat down in front of a computer terminal for four hours to click my way through a bunch of interactive programs, starring an incredibly irksome mascot named "Mel" who's pretty much a Nick Jr. "Face" (you remember ol' Face, right? He possessed the screen between Blue's Clues episodes to tell you jokes) on spidery metallic legs.

Mel isn't there all the time, though. Some of the training programs are in fact delivered to you through these badly-animated action episodes, the plots of which get siller as the story and your training unfold.

The first one I clicked my way through starred two "X-Files"-knockoff agents who had been sent on a wild goose chase for good customer service by their superior, who had been disappointed with his own "dining experience" at a local Mickey D's. The agents used virtual reality programs, espionage tools, and the interrogation of pleasant, polite McDonald's employees to determine what exactly made for a good dining experience.
The conclusion: Treat your customers how you would like to be treated! Suck their cocks if you have to! (The problem with this is that some customers don't like to have what those concretist bastards call "good service." When I go to a fast food restaurant, I feel cheated if I'm not served by a sullen, pimply-faced high school wage slave who mumbles my order and spits in the ketchup. If I'm greeted by a singing dancing fresh-faced smile, I'm more apt to wonder whether the lobotomy came out of their paycheck or whether it was covered by their health plan.)

The second one taught proper sanitation methods, and involved two more secret agents, of the undercover Mission: Impossible sort this time, but with quasi-sexual banter of the John Steed and Emma Peel camp.
The plot involved a search for an operative named "The Mayor" who had been lost in the field due to his crippling addiction for french fries (I swear I am not making this up), and who kept leaving the agents notes pointing to "Nemesis Technologies," an anti-McD's company who was sending little robot bugs to devour McDonald's potato stocks and create a fake potato substitute (composed mostly of turkey feathers) in order to drive the noble and servile men and women of McDonald's out of business.
I felt rather cheated that we never got to see the agents take out Nemesis Technologies (the program skipped from the final clue, which was hidden in a bucket of sanitizer, to the cumulative quiz), but mentally concocted a scenario involving combustion from an overstuffed wastebasket of oily rags, or perhaps a grease fire in the fake french fry lab due to the enemy company's policy of scorning the rigorous cleanliness standards of McDonald's. I imagine a sneering villain twirling his black moustache, the tips of which are covered in ketchup.

The third one was about drive-thru service, and starred the most inept human impersonators ever--two big-headed, antennaed aliens named Zod and Torpor, sent to Earth ("Bubbleov V") to learn the secrets of drive-thru service for their father, Piecrost, whose interplanetary restaurant business was going into bankruptcy and suffering riots from dissatisfied customers. I was reminded of a Daniel Pinkwater novel, but without the Chicken Man (which is sad, because a crazy homeless guy with a chicken on his head would be a great attraction for the kiddies).
The aliens spoke in incredibly stilted language, but didn't have to fight off curious humans or marauding enemy species or anything--the main amusement came from their malapropisms and awkward phrasing. I spaced out (haha) a little during this part, but I'd already been shown around the drive-thru anyway. The ending was happy--Piecroft had decided to adopt McDonald's standards and delicious food for his own intergalactic franchise restaurant, and business was once again booming. Arthur Dent would be happy to know that he will be able to get a McDonald's burger in space, even if he will have to have their watery scalding coffee instead of good English breakfast tea.

The really surreal thing about the stories was that the same characters kept showing up--apparently the FBI agents were interviewing aliens to learn about customer service to humans. It's too bad they never figured it out. I also felt rather sorry for the ubiquitous manager, who had to deal with FBI agents and evil french fry shortages and training aliens to peform minimum-wage monkey jobs.

There's more Mickey D's ridiculousness, but I don't really feel like typing it up right now; I'm kind of full and sleepy. Why? Well, spending four hours clicking can really make you work up an appetite, so I went to Burger King after my shift and got a delicious, juicy Whopper. McDonald's may be a generous and undiscriminating employer, have a rich history of being a ruthless bastard corporation, and have superb customer service training videos, but their burgers still taste like greasy stool no matter how much salty ketchup and buzzwords you slather on those fried offal patties.

Current Mood: employed
Current Music: "Boom, Like That," Mark Knopfler