Open Letter to McDonalds Monopoly Game Inventor
Dear Sir or Madam:
Alright, I'll give it to you. You're a fucking marketing genius. Give us, the hardworking American middle class, the chance to win by doing something that is essential to survival (purchasing food) and we turn into some real suckers. I say we pretty liberally here. I mean me, in general.
Before this little game started (on October 2nd, not that I marked my calander), I wasn't really a connoisseur of Mcdonalds. Sure, I'll chow down on it after leaving Marty's and blame the shits on a hangover, but not so much during the day.
I was really on a toasted Italian sub kick for a while there. But you sucked me in.
From collecting little green game pieces that force me into buying shit (that gives me the shits) off of your menu that I'd never EVER buy (Hey, the fucking green shit burger with grease leaking out the sides has a monopoly piece on it! Give me that meal, and make it a fucking biggie size!), to getting to work and entering your little codes on the website, cursing my puny existence when I land on "income tax", or "Park Place" for the 80th time, all the way to the painful trips to the bathroom afterwards..
Yeah, I read the official rules of the game. I know my chances of winning are not too great --1 in 1,345,455,334…a girl can dream right? I mean my fucking Mcdonald's cup has a picture of a fatty on it saying, "Even small town girls can win big—what the fuck is that McDonalds?? But, I digress.
Everyday, I go there for breakfast & lunch thinking: "Today's gonna be the day I get to take a stroll on the fucking boardwalk."
WRONG.
I've even enlisted the help of a friend at work. Krank. She gives me her codes, like a loyal little puppy, makes the daily lunch run to the big golden arches, with my promise of splitting the winnings with her should I—pardon—WHEN I hit it big. So see what you've done, you've made me such a firm believer that I have someone else WHOLEHEARTEDLY believing I'm going to win.
You're fucking up my health Mcdonalds Monopoly. You're fucking up my work (how many shit breaks can you really take during the day on company time before someone starts thinking you've got a coke habit?), but mainly, you're fucking up my life, because I sure as hell can't buy that new bag until I get a Ventor Avenue.
Respectfully Yours,
SLT—Just another Small Town girl
Followup Letter to The Inventor of the McDonalds Monopoly Game:
(The End of an Era)
Dear Sir/Madam:
It's me again, motherfucker!
Yesterday, your stupid little game ended declaring winners all across the United States, hell--the world for that matter.
Unfortunately, I was not included in that group of people, and you know what, that's fine with me McDonalds.
I was like the faithful girlfriend, coming to see you everyday, cutting time out of my busy schedule to make time for YOU, always remaining loyal to you and your nutritious menu.. and what fucking thanks do I get.
It's gonna take weeks for my bowels to return to normal, and I'm sure Krank will attest to that. The other day, you made my butt bleed! Yeah, that's right, Mcdonalds! You bastard! I've had a Bic Pen shoved in there, but you made me BLEED! I sacrificed my health to try to win, even at best, a $250 gift card from Amex, and what do you give me.. a free McFlurry? $1.00 off my purchase from Foot Locker? (Lord knows I need some new Air Jordans, I'm a REGULAR at Foot Locker, and that dollar is really going to help make Christmas this year, you bastard shit)
Good riddance, Monopoly. I hope they don't bring you back next year, because I have no self control, and I REALLY can't afford to do this again.
Showing posts with label blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blog. Show all posts
13 April 2009
An Open Letter to McDonalds Monopoly
Mangled Hand & The Sensitive Gamer
Side note: Not going to blog about last night because, honestly, he was such a nice guy. He was cute, and sweet. So, there’s that. However, in keeping with the tradition of updating my blog weekly… ENJOY.
When: Halloween.
Who: Me, Shine, Marktard, Kramer, and Unk.
Where: Some random warehouse party in Birmingham.
I am dressed as kind of like, a dark angel sort of thing. My costume is your gold standard of girl costumes. A slutty black dress, fishnets, hooker boots, and of course, the accessory (otherwise I would have just been a slut): The black halo and wings.
I am pretty lit. Off alcohol and other unnamed substances.
The party is seriously pretty uneventful, except for mangled hand guy.
I’m walking past this guy, and he grabs my arm. Strong-arms me, if you will. And he’s actually really hot! But then I feel his fingers, or lack thereof, on my hand. I am so drunk/high that I say, “What the fuck dude!” And jerk away.
My utter disgust does not deter him.
“Accident when I was a kid.”
Me: “Man, it’s like a little midget hand! You could fist me with that tiny hand!
Mangled hand is clearly taken aback, as most are when I say off the wall shit like this, and proceeds to call me shady.
Me: Shady? I’m not shady.
Mangled Hand: If you aren’t shady, then give me your number.
Me: I’m going to be honest here. Your hand is kind of freaking me out. Is it a costume?
MH: NO! No, it’s real, see…” He touches me with it again.I jump back about ten feet. But I give this guy my number.
MH: I’m going to save you as “Sketch.”
Me: Awesome. I’m saving you as Roy Munson.
MH: Like the Kingpin dude?
Me: EXACTLY LIKE THAT.
I start laughing out loud because he gets my joke.
If you look in my phone to this day, Roy Munson is listed right there, under the M’s. Nestled between Matos and No! (Still don’t know whose number that is, but for safety reasons keep it programmed in my phone. I was obviously sending a message to my future self at the time I programmed it. Saying, Future self, when this number comes up on the caller ID, should you answer it? No!)
Anyway, after I straight up Ernie McCracken’d all over Munson’s parade, we dipped out. We left with Kramer and Unk and went to Unks apartment. Ole’ Sketch here started feeling like maybe she wanted a little action.
So I started doing the cursory cell phone scan. I found one that I had hung out with a few times at the bar I used to go to after work. I text him, “Heyyyyyyy.” (3 a.m.)
I realize I’ve just given away my drunken texting habits. So, that being said…if you know me, and receive this text from me any time after 12 a.m. CST, IGNORE IT, unless you want to end up on my blog. Because I will definitely make fun of you.
Anyway. Moving along. I’m calling this guy Gay Pac-Man. I walk into his apartment. And it’s worse than the apartment in the 40-Year-Old Virgin. Toys, some kind of futuristic chair that looks like Dr. Evil’s chair mixed with a dentists chair…only gayer (I come to find out this is a gamer chair).
It’s bad.
But this doesn’t stop me. I came here for one thing buddy. And that was to drink your beer, and get some.
But no. Gay Pac-Man does not want to get it on (right away). He turns on (what I thought was) his TV. Not a TV, boys and girls. It was a fucking 50 inch COMPUTER SCREEN. He starts playing Warlock or Warcraft, whatever the hell that game is.
Meanwhile I’m sitting there in my slutty costume, high as a mutha, wondering if I am hallucinating this or if it is really happening. IT WAS.
After an hour of watching this douche-nozzle play video games, he gets up from his royal throne of douchery and comes and sits next to me. He starts making out with me, hardcore. And I kind of liked it, because I don’t know where this Alpha Male came from, because he sure as hell wasn’t playing games a minute ago. I tell myself maybe I did hallucinate the gamer, and that yes, this will do.
He asks me if I want to take it to the bedroom. Guess what my answer was?
(FF to 3 minutes later)
He is curled up in a ball next to me.
GPM: I haven’t done that in a while.
(This seems to be the standard excuse for “early ecstasy.” Regardless, it doesn’t change the fact that you just wasted my time. You knew I was coming over. You should have prepared yourself.)
Me: mm-hmm.
GPM: That was nice though. Do you like to cuddle?
Me: NO. I roll over.
He literally rolls me back over. We are now face to face.
GPM: Will you hold me?
I am shocked. Because not only do I NOT like cuddling, I most definitely do not want to cuddle YOU. But, I did. Because it was a weird situation, I did not know how to handle it. He flipped over so his ass was towards me, and I was SPOONING HIM. I’m a CHICK, and I was SPOONING HIM.
I wait till he falls asleep. I’m having trouble getting my arm out from under his head. Every time I move it he makes a weird moaning sound. I finally go with the band-aid approach and just yank it out of there. His neck rolls, he does not wake up. (Gaming and premature ejaculation really take it out of you.) I drive back to Unk’s apartment and pick up Shine.
We are both still drunk. We order $40 worth of Krystal’s and pass out in a sea of cardboard boxes.
When: Halloween.
Who: Me, Shine, Marktard, Kramer, and Unk.
Where: Some random warehouse party in Birmingham.
I am dressed as kind of like, a dark angel sort of thing. My costume is your gold standard of girl costumes. A slutty black dress, fishnets, hooker boots, and of course, the accessory (otherwise I would have just been a slut): The black halo and wings.
I am pretty lit. Off alcohol and other unnamed substances.
The party is seriously pretty uneventful, except for mangled hand guy.
I’m walking past this guy, and he grabs my arm. Strong-arms me, if you will. And he’s actually really hot! But then I feel his fingers, or lack thereof, on my hand. I am so drunk/high that I say, “What the fuck dude!” And jerk away.
My utter disgust does not deter him.
“Accident when I was a kid.”
Me: “Man, it’s like a little midget hand! You could fist me with that tiny hand!
Mangled hand is clearly taken aback, as most are when I say off the wall shit like this, and proceeds to call me shady.
Me: Shady? I’m not shady.
Mangled Hand: If you aren’t shady, then give me your number.
Me: I’m going to be honest here. Your hand is kind of freaking me out. Is it a costume?
MH: NO! No, it’s real, see…” He touches me with it again.I jump back about ten feet. But I give this guy my number.MH: I’m going to save you as “Sketch.”
Me: Awesome. I’m saving you as Roy Munson.
MH: Like the Kingpin dude?Me: EXACTLY LIKE THAT.
I start laughing out loud because he gets my joke.
If you look in my phone to this day, Roy Munson is listed right there, under the M’s. Nestled between Matos and No! (Still don’t know whose number that is, but for safety reasons keep it programmed in my phone. I was obviously sending a message to my future self at the time I programmed it. Saying, Future self, when this number comes up on the caller ID, should you answer it? No!)
Anyway, after I straight up Ernie McCracken’d all over Munson’s parade, we dipped out. We left with Kramer and Unk and went to Unks apartment. Ole’ Sketch here started feeling like maybe she wanted a little action.
So I started doing the cursory cell phone scan. I found one that I had hung out with a few times at the bar I used to go to after work. I text him, “Heyyyyyyy.” (3 a.m.)
I realize I’ve just given away my drunken texting habits. So, that being said…if you know me, and receive this text from me any time after 12 a.m. CST, IGNORE IT, unless you want to end up on my blog. Because I will definitely make fun of you.
Anyway. Moving along. I’m calling this guy Gay Pac-Man. I walk into his apartment. And it’s worse than the apartment in the 40-Year-Old Virgin. Toys, some kind of futuristic chair that looks like Dr. Evil’s chair mixed with a dentists chair…only gayer (I come to find out this is a gamer chair).
It’s bad.But this doesn’t stop me. I came here for one thing buddy. And that was to drink your beer, and get some.
But no. Gay Pac-Man does not want to get it on (right away). He turns on (what I thought was) his TV. Not a TV, boys and girls. It was a fucking 50 inch COMPUTER SCREEN. He starts playing Warlock or Warcraft, whatever the hell that game is.
Meanwhile I’m sitting there in my slutty costume, high as a mutha, wondering if I am hallucinating this or if it is really happening. IT WAS.After an hour of watching this douche-nozzle play video games, he gets up from his royal throne of douchery and comes and sits next to me. He starts making out with me, hardcore. And I kind of liked it, because I don’t know where this Alpha Male came from, because he sure as hell wasn’t playing games a minute ago. I tell myself maybe I did hallucinate the gamer, and that yes, this will do.
He asks me if I want to take it to the bedroom. Guess what my answer was?
(FF to 3 minutes later)
He is curled up in a ball next to me.
GPM: I haven’t done that in a while.
(This seems to be the standard excuse for “early ecstasy.” Regardless, it doesn’t change the fact that you just wasted my time. You knew I was coming over. You should have prepared yourself.)
Me: mm-hmm.
GPM: That was nice though. Do you like to cuddle?
Me: NO. I roll over.
He literally rolls me back over. We are now face to face.
GPM: Will you hold me?
I am shocked. Because not only do I NOT like cuddling, I most definitely do not want to cuddle YOU. But, I did. Because it was a weird situation, I did not know how to handle it. He flipped over so his ass was towards me, and I was SPOONING HIM. I’m a CHICK, and I was SPOONING HIM.
I wait till he falls asleep. I’m having trouble getting my arm out from under his head. Every time I move it he makes a weird moaning sound. I finally go with the band-aid approach and just yank it out of there. His neck rolls, he does not wake up. (Gaming and premature ejaculation really take it out of you.) I drive back to Unk’s apartment and pick up Shine.
We are both still drunk. We order $40 worth of Krystal’s and pass out in a sea of cardboard boxes.
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