HAPPY MEAL HUNTING GROUND

 Mahlo, my manservant, had just fastened my gaffer’s nappy, as the British are fond of saying, and I was about to settle in for an autumnal drowse, as I was fond of saying, when my servitor presented me with a handful of Baby Aspirin and a smirk. The Aspirin, St. Joseph’s Orange not that Bayer Cherry swill, I greedily chewed, but met the smirk with a strong reproach, reminding the menial that he was little more than a helper monkey in a mullet. Mahlo seemed flattered that I had noticed his new hairstyle.

As my eyes started to close, visions of Sugared Plums and Pop Tarted Strawberries danced in my head. Strawberry Pop Tarts with frosting of course, because ultimately, frosting on the Pop Tart is all that separates us from the animal kingdom. Well, some of us. As if to prove my point, Mahlo cleared his throat and stammered something guttural.

“I take that back,” I told the stuttering drudge. “A helper monkey could bang away on a lap top computer and eventually write Shakespeare, or at least a very special episode of Two Broke Girls, but you, sir, will always be a sub-verbal factotum,” and I amplified my point by spitting a chewable aspirin in his direction.

“Yes, sir,” the dogsbody offered. “I just wanted to remind you that tomorrow is Friday.”

“And I told you,” I snapped. “My pocket cash is tied up in a Pog Buy-Back Scheme right now, but you will receive your wages in good time.”

“Oh, it is not that, sir,” the domestic assured me. “Friday is the day McDonalds is rolling out the new Adult Happy Meals.”

“By Mayor McCheese’s Whiskers, you’re right!” I exclaimed and sat bolt upright in my bed, bumping my head into the upper bunk. No time for Neosporin, a Mederma Scar Treatment, Dermoplat No-Sting Spray, or a healing peck from Mahlo surprisingly curative lips on the offended welt, I threw off my Mandalorian covers, taking time to muse that this wasn’t the first time Pedro Pascal lay crumpled on a stranger’s bedroom floor and sprinted to the outer room, modesty be damned, leaving my Lands’ End Fleece Hooded Robe behind.

“Quickly.” I ordered the lap-spittle. “Get my backpack and stock it with Lunchables and Fruit Roll-Ups. If we hurry, we can still be the first in line.” In all my 60 years I’ve never been more excited about the roll-out of a food-like product by a major chain restaurant, but then never before had McDonalds come out with an Adult Happy Meal, if you ignore that time in 2004 when they offered that ‘healthy lifestyle’ Happy Meal with a salad, fitness DVD and a pedometer.

Salad at a McDonalds? When pigs fly commercial, I ruminated.

Mahlo, as if to demonstrate that he had evolved beyond his simian stablemates, took it upon himself to nuke up some Hot Pockets in the microwave as I was dressing, without direction. It could be a long night, after all.

Mahlo tugged the Velcro on my sneakers too tight again, but I persevered, and hobbled out to my waiting car. I gave Calloway, my driver, curt instructions and settled myself into the backseat when a sharp pain shot through my spine. Momentarily blinded by the paroxysm, I reached rearwards into my booster seat looking for the author of my tears. The offender revealed itself to be the rogue Fidget Spinner I had reported as missing to the staff almost three days earlier. Heads would roll, but not right now. I had to get under the warm glow of the Golden Arches before anyone else queued up.

We arrived seven minutes later, Calloway ignoring red lights and baby carriages at my instruction. The McDonald’s parking lot of surprisingly still, even for this hour. The 24-Hour Drive-Thru Window was empty, save for a demented Pillow Salesman in a Datsun being served a summons by the FBI and three Quarter Pounder Meals with a Diet Coke.

Mahlo, with the agility of a Tibetan Sherpa from the Chawa Clan, had fallen behind as he ran after our car, but finally caught up and grabbed my camping gear from the trunk, establishing our base camp on the sidewalk in front of the glass doors in record time. The night manager approached us, but silently backed off when Mahlo brandished the tribal khagga sword I had won at a silent auction at the Museum of Natural History. I had splurged and bought the weapon for myself after I got out bid by Mark Cuban on the skull plate of Dhyani Buddha.

Reposed in my camp chair, I opened a Fruit Roll-Up and sat back to await the unfolding of the Gates to McHeaven, a scant four hours away, peacefully… Too peacefully. Where were the other collectors and fatty foods enthusiasts? Surely an event like the debut of the Adult Happy Meal would drag Johnny and Jill Lunch Pail away from their Reality TV and Ersatz Family Bosoms for one night.

I checked my analog Swatch Original to make sure Mahlo had gotten the day right, but there is no date function on the 80’s Swatch, perhaps the oversight that drove that cut-price horologist, Franz Sprecher, out of the trade, and I hoofed it back to my car to check the date with Calloway, a Timex Man from way back.

The date was correct, Mahlo had not screwed up, but I had. In the 43 seconds I was gone from the doors five ragamuffin and a woman of questionable repute had jumped my claim. Rather than going to the trouble of explaining the Etiquette of The Vigilant and the Concept of Dibbs, I had Mahlo rush the offending sextet while I ignited an Enola Gaye Two Vent: Burst Wire Pull Smoke Grenade with a 20 second plume duration.

We lost Mahlo in the skirmish that followed, but the upshot was, I was indeed the first to get an Adult Happy Meal, two in fact. I got the Big Mac and the 10-piece Chicken McNugget Meals. The toys were a Grimace and Hamburglar, in case you were wondering.