McDonald's Settles Case Over Nasty Food

cDonald’s Corp. has agreed to donate $10 million to consumer groups to settle lawsuits filed against the chain for mislabeling its food as fresh and tasty.

McDonald’s also posted an apology on its Web site, acknowledging that mistakes were made in communicating to customers about the edibility of its food. The worldwide chain has been selling burgers and sandwiches not suitable for adults since the early 1950’s.

“We sincerely apologize for any hardship or lousy meals that these miscommunications have caused among our billions of customers,� the company said in an apology posted June 1 on the Web site.

Seattle attorney Harish Bharti said Tuesday that a judge gave his tentative approval of the deal last month while bitterly chewing on a Quarter Pounder with Cheese. “This is McNasty,� the judge added.

McDonald’s spokeswoman Anna Rozenich said the money the company will be paying out will go to watchdog organizations that fight for truth in advertising and other issues linked to concerns raised by the consumers, including the poaching of endangered species and psychological trauma caused by life-sized ceramic clowns.

McDonald’s was first sued in Seattle last year by three customers who expected to be able to eat the Extra Value Meals they purchased at a Seattle-area McDonald’s restaurant, not realizing they were purchasing pet toys. The trend caught on, and lawsuits were subsequently filed in Illinois, California, New Jersey and Texas.

The lawsuits were filed on behalf of any customer who ate at a McDonald’s restaurant after 1971. That was the year the company first started showing adults eating McDonalds sandwiches in its ads and commercials, a feat considered impossible by many.

“Our slogan has long been, ‘Delivering the taste you’ve come to expect from McDonald’s’,� said Rozenich. “We still believe this to be a true statement. What that taste is has never been specified in a legal context.�

As part of the lawsuit, the consumer group Pants on Fire pushed to have McDonald’s slogan changed to the more accurate “Our fries are pretty good, but I’d stay away from anything claiming to contain meat,� which was turned down by the judge.

Pants on Fire first came into the public spotlight in 1996, when they sued to have Bank of America’s national slogan changed to “Fuck you and your piddling little checking account.�

McDonald’s customers nationwide reacted with joy at the news of the settlement. “It’s about fuckin’ time,� said Harvey McNeil of Des Plains, Iowa. “Look at that picture,� McNeil said, gesturing toward the menu, which pictured a succulent, juicy Big Mac sitting on a slab of marble next to a bushel of fresh tomatoes and lettuce. “Now look at this,� McNeil continued, opening his cardboard Big Mac container to reveal the pathetic, lopsided mess within. “It looks like somebody shit this out of a tube of Big Macs,� McNeil announced. “I’d take this back but they guy up there doesn’t speak any English.�

“The fast food industry is unique in that it has little accountability,� said attorney Bharti. “If you bought a toaster and found it to be malformed and unappealing inside the box, you’d take it back and demand a refund. The manufacturer could never stay in business. But fast food restaurants thrive on rushed customers and a reliably inept staff to prevent any kind of feedback loop that would hurt business. It’s an enviable racket.�

“McDonald’s listens to its customers and has vowed to make a change for the better,� claimed Rozenich with something close to a straight face. “This $10 million settlement is something McDonald’s takes very seriously, it will take us at least seven minutes to make that money back.�

Brit Sailor Apology Video Obviously Just Photo with Superimposed Talking Lips

“.XXX” Domain Reserved for Adult Content Sites, Online Moonshiners

“Female Sex Patch” Nothing But Dermal Tequila Shooters

Constipation Drug Pulled; Results Not Shitty Enough

Kind friends, I'm more than aware of America's fondest for the individual. Actually, strike that, I'm simply aware of it, I doubt it's possible to be more than aware of something, it's the knowledge-based equivalent of being more than dead, you either are or aren't. Suffice to say I know of our need to be individuals, I myself am an individual along with my wife and friends, so I do not suggest we all needlessly conform. And even if I do suggest that, I'm willing to understand when people don't obey. But one thing is damn sure, and there is no quarter given for this fact: There is no "I" in "camp songs."

As Den Boss (I am neither mother nor father to any of them, it's shameful to lead them on like some adult den leaders do) of Troop 54, I am the short, thin green line between fascism and full-out hippie love fest. I will have neither, particularly the latter. I will even take a significant helping of the former in order to avoid any smidgen of the latter, to be blunt and honest. And until last week, order was held and maintained by Den Boss Rokwell T. Finger. Until a freckled kid, I'll refer to him as "The Turd" in order to protect small children from the shame of their actions. Okay, I can give you a hint, his real first name is Todd and his last name begins with a C., he's roughly 9, but that's all I can give you without incriminating him. If you write to me here at the commune I'll send a discreet e-mail sharing his name, just between you and me, but otherwise, "The Turd" thing is still in effect.

During an especially well-tempoed version of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," I heard a clattering off-key voice chime in, a second late I might add, and bring the whole thing tumbling down like a fat man on glass platform shoes. This voice was high-pitched, so I knew it wasn't my own, again starting up without my control under the boisterous sway of the song's appeal; it was one of the boys.

The freckle-faced Turd was the culprit. It was more than poorly-executed singing; I could tell by his flustered face, the squeaks of giggles from others, and the half-smile his wide-open pie hole was curtained by that the Turd was a revolutionary, a Che Guevara amidst my stolid camper robots. Well, naturally I warned him it was fruitless to defy our singing rules, and I thought that would work. Needless to say it did not.

"The Wheels on the Bus" did not go 'round and 'round, my friends. Old McDonald's Farm was full of blithering, retarded animals, including cats that mooed and chickens that made farting noises. And instead of coming around the mountain when she came, the bitch downright derailed. I was furious, more than furious, which I think may be possible to a reasonable extent.

I had a choice, right then and there: Allow my authority to vaporize to a pudgy anarchist or make an example of him to the others.

It wasn't a pleasant choice, obviously, but I took the only realistic course of action: I abandoned Turd to the wilderness as Troop 54 packed quickly and left. He believed his punishment was gathering nuts and berries, and in a way it was since he must have done that to survive his long stay in the woods and find his way back to civilization. I received stern criticism, true, and lost the command of my scout regiment, but at least I have left an indelible lesson of the importance of conformity impressed upon them, especially one arrogant young boy.

Turd has since managed to find his way back, judging by the signatures on the legal summons, and nobody is happier than me. Hopefully he'll grow up one day and, when a gaggle of young boys are put in his custody, he'll realize a stern rod can shape any young Jimmy Dean Rebel-Without-A-Cause into an impressive soprano.

º Last Column: There's A Bustle in My Hedgerow
º more columns

That's right, your honor, you heard the title. I've prepared this statement in my defense because this country's legal system is inherently biased against the kind of "shock and awe" courtroom antics that would most memorably and quickly prove my innocence, and so I've been forced to make humble words, and periodic karate gestures, my servants. I stand here before you today a man innocent of the baseless accusations that I personally bred and trained a small army of vicious and lightning-quick monkeys to keep government ninjas out of my house.

These charges are untrue, your honor, and I bear no responsibility for the power company meter reader who was torn to shreds by these cunning, genetically-modified apes. The berserk primates that witnesses saw fleeing my home on May 17th had invaded my innocent dwelling only moments before, possibly descending by rope from a blimp, or creating an elaborate series of underground tunnels leading to my basement, or possibly both.

The prosecution will be calling two witnesses, Reginald "Dickface" Tungstein and Charlize "Dirty Lying Bitch" Overborn, who are both professional liars hired to gain my trust, plant monkey-breeding evidence in my home, and to fake video footage of me running frighteningly-swift killer monkeys though training drills in my own back yard. Neither of these individuals, you will note, has ever seen the movie Congo. As your honor obviously knows, this seriously calls into question their knowledge of killer ape matters and the relevance of their testimony. Also, "Dickface" Tungstein once slept with my ex-girlfriend. Draw your own conclusions from that.

And I'm sure your honor will also be hearing a lot about these so-called "Velocimonkeys." That they have eyes dark as night and slender, scheming fingers. That I bred them by crossing insane howler monkeys with a Tasmanian devil. That when cornered, they go for the nuts like a nut-hungry piranha, and that three of them can skeletonize a bull in fourteen seconds. That at night, they sing beautiful, high harmonies to lure in birds and children for snack and sport.

I'm sure you'll also be hearing that after they tore the meter reader into confetti, the Velocimonkeys escaped, terrorizing a Dairy Queen and hijacking a 1998 Toyota Camry moments before driving it off a nearby bridge and into the river, where they all drowned at an alarming rate of speed. That no Velocimonkey bodies were ever found, because I rescued them with scuba gear and a tuna net, bringing them home and locking them in a titanium footlocker in my basement that nobody knows about. These charges and more, your honor, are horseshit times three.

I saw these monkeys, your honor, as they invaded my home while I was praying and working on the cure for childhood cancer, and I didn't think they were all that. I even hit one with a bottle of scotch and it was clearly phased, as all normal monkeys are when hit with booze. It wouldn't surprise me if that meter reader in fact suffered from a medical condition that predisposed him to falling apart like sloppy joe meat when threatened by apes.

Furthermore, your honor, in my defense I plan on exposing the powerful racism at work within our local police force. This case is clearly less about the facts and more about my Dutch-Irish heritage, and the painful stereotypes that persist about the Dutch-Irish and their love of breeding killer primate hybrids with a taste for blood. This is the case that might very well change the way we think about race in this country, and hopefully it will do so in the next 34 minutes since I've got tickets for Nickelback. Case dismissed.

º Last Column: My Fucking Living Will Just Died
º more columns