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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Seems like everybody's got something against salt these days. You can't dip your French fry into the saltshaker in a restaurant any more without getting dirty looks from every overzealous health nut in the joint, like you just sluiced the skin off an newborn baby and stuffed it with StoveTop and onions. You'd think it was strychnine or pure Bolivian blow the way these shitbirds put on a sour puss. Well I hate to be the only pooper at the party, and I don't want to give any of you politically correct folks an anal hernia, but I've just got to say it anyway:

Fuck you all, I love salt.

Don't look at me like I just crawled out from under a rock on planet Neanderthal. I've read all the screaming headlines printed in vivid blood red about what doctors of today have to say about salt. That it'll boost your blood pressure higher than Tim Leary in a hot air balloon and make your arteries hard like a fifteen year-old at the Playboy mansion. Doctors of today cross the street to avoid salt spilled on the sidewalk and wear full-body condoms when they swim in the ocean, I know. But you know what the thing is? The doctors of today are for shit.

I'm not kidding, they're worthless. Remember a few years back when they decided that flying a kite was good for arthritis? Then all those old suckers were killed by lighting? Then the doctors decided that wine is good for your heart, so everybody ran out and stocked up on the vino, but then a week later doctors "discovered" that drinking too much wine will make you shit out your ovaries. What, do these guys own a chain of liquor stores or something? Every other day they're pulling some startling revelation out of their collective ass, like eggs give you glaucoma or milk makes your feet stink. I swear to God these guys are filling out some kind of Medical Mad Libs they got in med school and are laughing their asses off as they fill them out at their posh doctor parties and make drunken prank calls to the press. I trust those guys about as far as I can throw a herniated disk.

So I'm not about to let these slappy sons of bitches ruin the great fun I have eating salt. And I do mean fun. I don't care what it is, salt makes it better: steak, burgers, potatoes, salad. Even ice water. And don't forget to salt your butter. Have you ever had unsalted butter? Sweet bland-assed Moses, I had some of that stuff on a roll once accidentally and I thought I'd had a stroke that paralyzed my taste buds. The mere memory of it gives me the shivers.

I don't think people today realize how lucky we are in this day and age, to have salt available in the quantities that we do. Just the other day I enjoyed a salt-encrusted fudge roll at one of my favorite breakfast haunts, the Gravestone Mill. A simple pleasure, true, but just try and order yourself up one of those about 6,000 years ago. You just couldn't do it. And not just because you weren't born yet. Back in the day salt was rarer than a celibate high school girl and in many cultures was worth more than its weight in gold. This may sound crazy to your modern ears, but just imagine trying to choke down a doughy, overcooked baked potato with just some gold flakes on the top. Not too appealing, eh?

After that, when salt became more readily available, it predated refrigeration as a way to preserve food. Now that's what I'm talking about. If I should ever stumble upon a time machine, you know precisely where I'm setting the dial. That had to be some kind of heaven on earth. All the salt you could eat, and nary a dirty look for your trouble.

Sure, folks only lived to about 30 back then, but when you died, I bet it was with a salty smile on your dry, crackled lips. Amen.

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Things could not be worse, even if I had a head made of cheese in the middle of Amsterdam. Or a head made of pot, if you believe those rumors about our European neighbors. Camembert has fallen in love, making him even more intolerable than usual.

Wait, for as they say, it gets worse. You remember my friend Girl Elvis, who set me up with prescription drugs not long ago, and whose real name escapes my memory? Yes, she's the culprit. Damn her and her sexy manly-yet-feminine sneer, and jaw-dropping rendition of "Suspicious Minds."

As good as her word, she dropped by our Flatbush residence a mere three weeks ago in search of a place to lay her head, expecting I would simply open up my doors because I had made such a promise two weeks before. Audacity aside, I decided to make good on my word, because she looks very strong under those sequined sleeves. I had no idea my life would be turned upside down, and not in a "cute illegitimate kid moves into swinging bachelor apartment" sitcom way.

Instantly Camembert took a shine to her. Perhaps it was that alluring pompadour, or her bassy way of introducing herself when she walks into a room: "Hey, ladies and gentlemen, I'm an impersonator of Elvis Presley." They have to say that now, for legal reasons, she informed me. What man could resist her? Me, that's who. The homoerotic undertones alone have kept me up at nights. But not Camembert, apparently he's exceedingly secure in his sexuality, or some nonsense.

"What do you think of Loretta?" he asked me over breakfast one morning. I launched into an angry diatribe about Loretta Lynn, so-called "Coal Miner's Daughter," before I remembered it was the birth name of Girl Elvis. I then told him exactly what I think of her, that my opinion was strong in no certain direction. "I think she's snazzy," he said.

Disgruntled noise here. He used to think I was snazzy. Or even if he didn't, it was easier to imagine he did when he didn't talk so much. I preferred Camembert when he used to come home quietly from wherever it is he goes and wheels himself into his room, to stay there until I wake him up in the middle of the night to go duck hunting, or whatever escapade has captured my imagination as of late. Now, there's no guarantee he will even be in his room when I want to surprise him! He may be sitting on the couch with his new girlfriend, watching Blue Hawaii. I will not have it. Happiness should not go on under my roof if I'm not getting a slice of it.

Still, I cannot simply kick Girl Elvis out. Again, she looks very strong. I should try to find a way to foil their romance before it begins. I have talked to her about it, and she assures me her intentions are honorable. Or actually, she said, "Camembert… is that the guy who sleeps on the floor in the hallway?" At which point I correct her, no, that's Eugene, I found him in the attic when I bought the house. She insists Camembert or, "that poor little wheelchair kid," is not her type. I think it's all a ruse to further confuse me, and I will not have whatever it is she's making me have.

It's a sad day for Rok Finger when the world doesn't revolve entirely around him and his ever-widening circles. I will command Camembert's full attention once again, or die trying. Or someone might die, at any rate.

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