McDonald's and
Excrement
by Kara Carlson
In Sweden,
there are ski-through McDonald's. In Germany,
McDonald's serves beer. At the McDonald's five
minutes from where I live in Auckland, New
Zealand, there is a play structure. As the five
children I look after crazy-horse galloped
through the restaurant towards the indoor
playground, an old woman screamed and a baby
cried. The mom and I exhibited more interest in
the dinner menu than in her chaos club of crazy
cubs. When Geriatrics squawked, wondering whom
the mother of the mob that almost gave her asthma
was, the mom and I discussed words that are
difficult to say when intoxicated.
When the mom
and I had completed the three rounds of baby- and
tray-carrying upstairs, I penetrated that play
structure like I was Donald Trump.
"Dinner
time," I announced. Five sets of little kid
limbs jumbled and jangled to the door. I felt
like a child pimp.
I followed
behind the five-year-old, the last to exit the
wonderland of plastic tubes and slides. We got
through the door and to the table before she
turned to me with raving berserk eyes.
"It's
falling out," she wailed, the words
rebounding off the heads and ears of over thirty
seated McDonald's patrons.
"Shitrun,"
I rioted, pointing back towards the play
structure and the bathrooms.
She ran, I
chased. I feel like a pedophile almost every day.
Last Thursday, it was when I picked up the
toweled three-year-old after his bath and my hand
accidentally cupped his balls.
I was three
steps behind the five-year-old and seven from the
bathroom door when she bent over like a hunchback
and lifted up her jean skirt. Black shit peeked
out from her pooper. The five-year-old frequently
forgets to wear underwear. Recalling from my
Excrement Bible that black turd is a sign of
internal bleeding, I was still more hell-bent on
getting her ass over a toilet seat than I was
concerned for her ulcer potential.
I accelerated
next to her and lobbed the door open. The five-year-old
penguin-waddled past me with a handful of black
excreta about to parachute from her bottom onto
the tile. I lifted her by the armpits and chucked
her onto the toilet as dung dropped.
I leaned
against the open stall door breathing like a
leper, sweat sprinkling my body.
"I'm glad
I felt it coming," the five-year-old proudly
announced.
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