True, true, I don’t belong in this fine McDonald’s establishment. I came in here with Omar, he said he was going to use the restroom. I was just going to stand over here and idly touch this life-size wooden cutout of Lyle Lovett while I wait. I wasn’t going to bother anyone. Omar. We came in together. He entered first, and I followed him. He was wearing a filthy, powder blue tuxedo and a– no, I don’t want an Arch Deluxe, thank you. Oh, you were being sarcastic.
There’s a baby outside wearing a cashmere diaper and chewing on a length of yellow police tape. Someday he’ll learn how to order a hash brown. Bright reality will hemorrhage from his oversized pores in a C# whine. The grass will curl and warp beneath his breath, and sea-sharp executives in a filthy boardroom will squeal in ecstasy. Move up, go harder, ask for a double. Diet Sprite. Yes, you’ll do just fine.
Tomorrow we will be closed. Filming a commercial. Go away.
Werner Herzog is showing Bronson Pinchot how to choke on a serrano pepper. Quiet on the set. Now, you want it to be believable, but not grotesque. Your eyes should bulge out a little, but not too much. Don’t stick out your tongue. Grasp at your throat but don’t kick anything over.
Where the fuck is Omar? He’s been in there since 1969. He doesn’t even know that the Grateful Dead– no, I don’t want to stick anything in your barbecue sauce. Oh, sarcasm again. Got it.
I’m just going to stand over here and idly touch this life-size wooden cutout of A GERMAN SHEPHERD while I wait. You won’t even know I’m here. No trailing zeros, no leading zeros, just one very lost and confused decimal point suspended in the ochre country haze. I’ll even close my eyes and think small like they taught me in art school.
Dead horses are piling up in the drive-thru, but whose job is it to sort it out?
Werner Herzog has two fingers in Bronson Pinchot’s trachea now. It’s not looking good. There’s no time to recast this thing and the backup dancers have already gone back to Egypt. ILM will just have to fix this wreck in post. Just send over an Edible Arrangements basket and a peppermint-scented manila folder stuffed with 8×10 glossies from Kurt Cobain’s autopsy. Once this shit’s in the can I’ll be as far from a McDonald’s franchise as physically possible, which is a small cemetery in rural Romania. If I roll my eyes back into my head far enough and scream loud enough, I can almost block out the yellow glow from those infernal arches. Plus, there’s WiFi!
Once I’m there, I’ll sip a warm margarita from a boot and learn via TMZ that Omar joined the priesthood back in 1980 and is planning to poison the Pope’s popcorn shrimp. Shh, no spoilers please!
But you’re absolutely right, I don’t belong in this McDonald’s, so I’ll be going. When Omar comes out, tell him I’m sorry, but the golden arches were scorching my soul. I’m going to the moutains. By the way, is that the Hamburglar’s Maserati out there? Oh, no reason. Just curious. Anyway, see you later.
Ha ha, I got pear all over my nose