McDonald's Casting New 'McJared' Mascot

oting the success that Subway Sandwiches has enjoyed with advertising spokesman Jared Fogel, McDonald's announced today that they are looking for a similar type of person to head up a new advertising campaign for them that is still in the works. Applicants for the position are expected to be pale, blotchy, still somewhat soft around the middle, and most desirably, should have undergone a radical weight loss in the last year or so.

"We're ditching the old tired-ass icons Ronald McDonald and Hamburglar and Grimace," said corporate spokesman Andy Lard. "Instead, we're looking for someone who was recently a big fatty, you know, a real tubbo. I mean just a gigantic container of goo. Someone that lost like three or four hundred pounds through an exclusive diet of Big Macs and fries and hot apple pies. We're looking for someone who can hold up a pair of pants big enough to stuff three sumo wrestlers and Anna Nicole Smith inside, but who is now comparatively slim."

Lard went on to say that the person they had in mind should also have "pasty white, preferably kind of blotchy skin, be extremely androgynous, and should still be porky enough as to be non-threatening to our commercial audience. We're looking for a soft, bland kind of non-descript guy, but one who has a real presence, you know what I mean?"

"We want someone who represents the average American who sits on his couch watching TV most of the week and all weekend, except for when he goes to McDonald's, of course, and has that kind of glazed look. We don't want anybody overly bright or too outspoken, just somebody nice and comfy-looking, somebody our customers can identify with. A recent lobotomy would be a definite plus."

Asked how the search was going, Lard admitted that they had not had much luck in the few weeks since it began.

"It's too bad we didn't snap that Jared guy up first," he complained. "He's really the ideal person for what we're looking for. Still, there must be others out there like him. And we're going to keep looking until we find him."

McDonald's shares lost money this past quarter for the first time ever, but Lard discounted the notion that the lack of an adequate spokesman was the reason.

"That may have played a small part in it, you know, us not having a big one-time fat-ass whale waving his drawers around on national TV and telling everyone how he lost weight eating McDonald's food; but the main reason is probably because people are finally wising up to how evil our corporation is, what with Satan holding the board chairman position and all, how nutritionally bankrupt our food is, and how our grand plan is to ultimately poison most of the Third World with our hamburgers. Uh... this is off the record, right?"

Lard then excused himself and said he had a luncheon meeting to discuss using a heavily-sedated Rosie O'Donnell in drag as the New Jared. He mentioned that the meeting would be at Fresh Choice, just around the corner from McDonald's corporate headquarters. Asked why the luncheon meeting wasn't catered with McDonald's food, Lard responded simply, "What, are you fuckin' kidding me? Nobody in their right mind would eat that crap."

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The question we should all be asking, whether we know the answer or not, is this: who in the world was Mohandas K. Gandhi? Sure, you're heard the name. You may even remember his face from Mad Magazine's History, Schmistory issue from a few years back. But who was he, really, and why are half of my breakfast products named after him?

The answer is more complex than it is simple. Mohandas Gandhi was a cigar-chomping Indian entrepreneur with a short temper and a talent for the tall tale. His life left a mark on the world that's been tough to scrub off, which should be the goal of any great man.

Gandhi came to world prominence as the world's fattest man in the first ever Big Fat Olympics in 1931. There he trounced the competition by being really really fat. He cruised on the fame of being so fat for several years, but eventually even his big fat popularity began to wane. This is what always happens throughout history: one day you're on top of the world for being a big tub of lard and the next day it's what have you done for me lately, fatso?

Gandhi kicked this problem right in the pants when pulled off the bold move of losing all that weight and becoming really amazingly skinny. He then claimed he lost the weight eating chicken. Medical reports show this was partially true, since he had picked up an orca-sized tapeworm from some undercooked chicken in New Delhi. When the tapeworm was removed it was so large it got Gandhi's record collection and his apartment, while he opted to move into a smaller place across town.

Riding high on the wave of his being-skinny-now fame, Gandhi opened chain of chicken restaurants that did very well. Known as Colonel Gandhi to fans of his chicken, Mohandas sought then to branch out into other enterprises, including a line of mylar-bagged salads and a novelty record label that pressed edible LPs. Neither were as delicious as his chicken, but they did have their advocates.

Gandhi briefly considered starting a dance craze, but soon abandoned that dream in order to fulfill his true vision for India: that everyone everywhere should have access to delicious chicken. People cheered in the streets when they heard of his plan, and Gandhi became a national hero overnight.

Unfortunately, back in that day the British owned all of India, which they had won years ago shooting craps with the Ottoman Empire. And being the pricks that they historically were, the Brits didn't want all of India getting slap-happy with delicious chicken while they had to choke down disgusting pork drippings smeared on stale English muffins. The complete disgustingness of British cuisine ruled the fates of many a people in the 19th and early 20th centuries, since the Brits had to conquer far and wide just to find a decent bite to eat.

The British told Gandhi to buzz off with his succulent rotisserie chicken, and that the people of India would have to make do with the gelatinous gravy-soaked nasty crap that the Brits called food. Gandhi thought they were kidding, and continued happily with his franchise expansion plans until the British proved they meant business by killing everyone in India. Don't try to follow the logic there, that's just the way the British did things back then. Luckily for the Indians, the Brits didn't really have a clue where the Indian people hung out, so they only actually ended up killing everyone who was hanging out at the one British pub in India, most of whom were British people and tourists.

The next day the British were shocked and awed to find Indian people out walking around in the streets, and from that moment on, old wives' tales of Indian reproductive prowess became a staple in British schools.

Gandhi sought to fight the injustice of British oppression by opening more chicken restaurants. The people applauded his defiance, and enjoyed his chicken. Over the next several years the British tried several increasingly ridiculous methods of quelling the Indian uprising, including outlawing savory flavor, forcing all known Indians to wear tight-fitting trousers and spraying crowds with cottage cheese. None of these were effective, however, as the people's love of Gandhi's chicken proved lasting.

Eventually Gandhi's methods of delicious resistance gained popularity all over the world, and the British gave up, leaving India with several take-out boxes of mouth-watering chicken under their arms. The people would have rejoiced, but they were really full and figured that a vague thumbs-up gesture communicated their approval well enough.

Years later Gandhi was assassinated by a religious fanatic who believed that chicken so good it made your dick hard was against God's plan. He wasn't arrested, since India is more of a "you made your bed now sleep in it" kind of nation, and instead he was just banned from all 12,000 Colonel Gandhi's chicken locations. Amnesty International has tried to intervene on his behalf, as have the manufacturers of several fake-nose-and-mustache disguise kits, but despite their best efforts the assassin has lived for years in delicious chicken purgatory.

Some historians have argued that Gandhi, while a fun guy, was served too generous a slice of historical notoriety given his accomplishments. They often sing another tune, however, when really hungry. Such is human nature.

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The time has come once again for my annual pilgrimage to Graceland—my first pilgrimage, actually, and I admit I'm randomly selecting the date rather than choosing some important date. And no, I'm not a fan of Elvis Presley, I've never even met the man. I'm a fan of Paul Simon's Afro-themed album, especially the song where he lets me call him Al.

Admittedly, I should have done this earlier, but I forgot to establish house rules during the great Rok Finger absence. This would be better done as a house meeting, say, than a column, but I had space to fill and I'm looking to beat cheeks to the airport as soon as it hits 2 p.m. here.

It boils down to one major credo: Camembert is in charge. Sorry, everybody else—meaning Lee. But somebody had to be picked, and this time it's Camembert. Maybe next time it will be you, Lee. But not likely. It will probably be Camembert then, too. And if he blows it this time, I'll just hire a sitter or something, or allow Stu Umbrage or somebody here at work be Acting Rok in my place.

The fact is, Camembert is the only one who can be trusted not to burn the house down or sell it to immigrants for crystals. In many ways, Lee is superior to Camembert—hell, in most ways. Lee is definitely more fun to hang out with, less scared to try new things, and the fact he can walk is always a plus. If I were looking for someone to take to Vegas or join the Foreign Legion with, Lee would be the only choice. But the simple fact is Lee is somewhat irresponsible, and I'm not convinced that head injury is completely healed.

I can trust Camembert to keep things boring while I'm gone, and that's what's important, right? That there is no fun while I'm gone. Without my level head around to counter Lee's brazen foolhardiness, there should be no fun. And Camembert will make sure of it. Just look at his life before we showed up—sure, he had his apartment all to himself, but he had no rock band posters on the wall, no black lights in the apartment, and it was a smoke-free environment. I'm talking all kinds of smoke, even Lee's peculiar tobacco. It's obviously a lot better with us around, no one would argue, or we'd kick him out of his wheelchair; but with me on the road going to Graceland, Graceland, Memphis, Tennessee, the fun needs to be reigned in just enough to make sure I don't return home and find the whole place owned by some Heaven's Gate cult or something.

This will obviously be a big boost to Camembert's ego, but that can't be helped. I'll be sure to remind him who's the real pharaoh of the temple when I get back, and allow him his little iron-fist Al-Haig rule for a few weeks. Lee seldom listens to me, so I doubt Camembert being in charge will crimp his lifestyle much. But the simple fact is Camembert is responsible and Lee is not. And the new swinging single Rok Finger may not care too much for responsibility, but when I get back and see all the damage and angrily ask, "Who's responsible for this?" I won't have to wait for the answer.

Now, Camembert, this of course does not mean I want you living in my room—your old room—and wearing my pants and/or other clothes while I'm gone. I don't want you fiddling with my things, watching my TV, looking at the naked lady magazine, or using the phone in the case of emergencies. No, you can't take the dress off while I'm gone. I'm still the big boss, as like as I'm alive.

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