When I get off work late at night after a day full of being ravaged by anxiety I seek comfort that is almost always found in the form of a McDonald’s #2 combo. I seek out solitude to enjoy my meal, as that is when I am at my most vulnerable. I usually end up in an empty parking lot while I perform heinous and unspeakable acts to that MSG laden “hamburger.” Sometimes while I come up for air, I’ll notice employees less fortunate than me getting off their shitty jobs, and I worry that they think I’m there to stalk or follow them home.
I’m not interested in you. I am interested in this hamburger. Made from the ground and strained beef of a thousand different cows. Perfected by science and made into an abomination that will certainly be the downfall of mankind. That is what I am after. The finality of McDonalds.
Oh boy, I’ve had this wordplay in my back pocket for some time now. I like to do these one panel New Yorker style strips when I’m behind on schedule and need a quick fix. Even though they’re done quicker, I always feel like they’re better than my normal stuff. I’m more proud of them, at least.
For anyone who might not get the joke, it’s built on the T-shirt phrase “This is what a feminist looks like.” It’s okay if you didn’t. I’m not really sure how recognizable the phrasing is.