Dear McDonald’s Canada,
I’ll bet you’re feeling pretty smug right now. Pretty. Damn. Smug. As an American traveling abroad, I was lured into your establishment by an advertisement for Maple-Bacon Poutine. “Hmm,” I thought to myself, “We don’t have that back home… What other secrets lie in wait beyond the golden arch? A Moose Meat McDouble? Polar Bear McNuggets? Who the fuck knows?!” Eyes wide, mouth watering, pockets laden with loonies and toonies, I approached the counter.
That’s when I saw her, the Red Velvet Oreo McFlurry, a soft-serve ice cream confection laced with rich swirls of red velvet fudge, available in three sizes for a limited time only. Her paper cup overflowed seductively, revealing a treasure trove of Oreo pieces.
“Don’t mind if I do,” I said to myself in a voice I’ve… never used before. “Have you tried that?” I asked the girl behind the counter, my lusty gaze still resting upon my darling.
“No,” she responded.
“Well is it good?” I pressed, “What’s the word on the street?”
“A lot of people have been ordering it, I suppose,” she replied, apathetically.
“A best seller, eh?” I smiled, “Say no more. I’ll take her--it. I’ll take it.”
“Anything else?”
I shook my head impatiently. I opened my wallet, revealing a rainbow of foreign currency and paid hastily, a lecherous grin dancing across my countenance.
“Act normal,” I told myself, “Be cool.” I checked my phone (defunct in Canada) as I waited anxiously next to the register, sales slip in hand.
“Here,” the cashier handed me my prize.
I stole away to the nearest booth. “It’s the best I could do, my dearest,” I cooed. Placing her gingerly in the center of the table, I removed my cellular device. Yes, I was going to Instagram that. Hashtag “no filter.”
No sooner had I positioned her, than I realized something was amiss.
I cleared my throat, “Ahem. Well. This is awkward, but I can’t help but notice that you don’t really look like your photos.” She didn’t. She was sloppy, crafted by some ungrateful employee making a handsome eleven dollars an hour. Do you know what minimum wage is in America? It’s seven forty. Try feeding a family on seven forty an hour, and then make this McFlurry again, why don’t you? But I digress.
Against my better judgement, I unwrapped my spoon, a rectangular prism (though God only knows why because it most certainly does not function dually as a straw). I took a single bite, allowing the complexity of the flavors (or more accurately, the lack there of) to wash over my palate.
“Hold up,” I swallowed. “This is just… vanilla!” My heart rate quickened as I realized what had happened. I’d been hoodwinked--nay, catfished by the glittering menu board. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head: “Al, you know they use mashed potatoes in those pictures. They pay people, special food pornographers, to make it look good.” She was right. I, Alex Bos, had been had.
It was then that panic ensued. I thought about my evening yoga class. “They’ll know,” I winced, “They’ll know what you’ve done, and they’ll stick you in the back of the room with the flatulent old men and the posers who are practicing on the Groupon scholarship.”
I tried to remain calm, but my mind was reeling. In my anxiety, my thoughts became dark and angry. “How could you mess up red velvet? It's just chocolate with red food coloring! An old classic masquerading in a fancy new dress. It's not even a flavor!”
Seething and dowsed in the sweat of my own shameful triste, I made my dramatic exit.
In conclusion, I’d like my one dollar and seventy-nine cents plus twelve percent sales tax back, preferably in light-weight, 100% cotton American tender.
Sincerely,
Me
