Shame on you for wasting a perfectly good Big Mac

You spit the sandwich out of your mouth, much to the dismay of the young McDonald's worker who put it there. "You didn't like the sandwich, sir?"

"It's not that I didn't like it," you reassure him. "I just don't want a hamburger right now. Okay? I'm sorry that I spit the sandwich out. Here, let me clean it up."

Slowly, you start to rise up off your chair to pick up the sandwich and throw it in the garbage. Ronald, however, puts a hand on your shoulder, motioning you to remain seated.

"It's okay, I can clean it up," you tell Ronald. You start to get up again.

"Grimace, do it," Ronald says. The next thing you know, a purple fist connects with your skull. Everything goes dark for a while.

A few hours pass. When you wake up, you find that you are . . . .

Written by an anonymous author

would you like fries with that
on a deserted island

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