All this recent talk of mealworms made me remember one of my bucket list entries:
Purchase and eat a McDonald’s Happy Meal — without getting caught!
Because you have to have proof of child, right, to legitimately buy a Happy Meal? I mean, there’s a reason your local brasserie has a kids’ menu. You can’t order the “Wee Folks Mac & Cheese” because the server will be all like, YOU’RE FIFTY!
So I figured it must be the same for Happy Meals. No Happy Meals to anyone over four feet — but then what about dwarves? Can you tell how I’ve been agonizing over this? I mean, really. Dwarves?
But all of the sudden it occurred to me: If I place my order via the drive-thru window . . . how would they ever know? Unless the drive-thru operator’s camera scans your car for humanoid shapes under four feet? But I’m sure I’ve never heard the disembodied voice ask, “Is that a child or a dwarf, ma’am?” whenever anyone in front of me ordered a Happy Meal, so maybe they don’t check.
Also, if interrogated, I could always say my child is at home, too sick to accompany me. “She has the plague! And her dying wish is for a Happy Meal!” I’m sure they’d fork it over and probably feel really guilty, which would be a bonus.
So that was my plan, as I set out that cold January day, full of anticipation and fear and hunger. To SCAM a Happy Meal out of McDonald’s and eat it by my almost-fifty-year-old-self.
Now, I’m a good liar if it’s spontaneous. But this lie had been years in the making. I was nervous.
“One Happy Meal, please,” I said in a trembling voice.
“Boy or girl?”
Whaaat? I was not prepared for this question. Why did it matter? Were they trying to trick me into screaming “NONE OF THE ABOVE” and tearing out of there?
Terrified and confused, I said, “I’m sorry?”
“Do you want a girl’s Happy Meal or a boy’s?”
Ohhhhhh, right. ‘Cuz you get a toy. I said, “Girl” but regretted it almost immediately, because I bet the boy toy is better (and yes, I meant it like that).
“What would you like?”
Again, stymied! I would like a Happy Meal! A Girl Happy Meal! What other information am I supposed to provide? The jig is up! They’re onto me. Should I bail or fake my way through this?
I had come too far to abandon my dream. I faked it.
“Uhhh . . . a cheeseburger and fries?” No response. Phew. Either that was the right answer or they had pulled up my personal information on their computer and the cops were waiting at my house.
“Milk or apple juice?”
Oh, man, I was getting away with it! This was starting to feel fun. Plus — apple juice! No wonder they call this a Happy Meal!
But I still had to get by the cashier.
I was ready for anything she might say: “I hope you . . . I mean, your daughter enjoys her Happy Meal” or “You’re buying this for a dwarf, aren’t you?” or “YOU’RE FIFTY!” but none of those things happened. I paid and received my greasy bag.
Off I sped, shaking with triumph.
So was it worth it?
Oh, yes. Lookit.
Would you lie for a Happy Meal?
Would you even eat a Happy Meal?
Do Happy Meals ever decompose?
Milk or apple juice?
Dopey came from here