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McDonald's Settles Case Over Nasty Food June 10, 2002 |
McDonald's posted an apology on their Web site Wednesday for misrepresenting its sandwiches as edible. cDonaldâs 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.
McDonaldâs 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 1950âs.
âWe sincerely apologize for any hardship or lousy meals that these miscommunications have caused among our billions of customers,â 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 Quart...
cDonaldâs 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. McDonaldâs 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 1950âs. âWe sincerely apologize for any hardship or lousy meals that these miscommunications have caused among our billions of customers,â 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. âThis is McNasty,â the judge added. McDonaldâs 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. McDonaldâs 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 McDonaldâs 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 McDonaldâs 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. âOur slogan has long been, âDelivering the taste youâve come to expect from McDonaldâsâ,â said Rozenich. âWe still believe this to be a true statement. What that taste is has never been specified in a legal context.â As part of the lawsuit, the consumer group Pants on Fire pushed to have McDonaldâs slogan changed to the more accurate âOur fries are pretty good, but Iâd stay away from anything claiming to contain meat,â 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 Americaâs national slogan changed to âFuck you and your piddling little checking account.â McDonaldâs customers nationwide reacted with joy at the news of the settlement. âItâs about fuckinâ time,â said Harvey McNeil of Des Plains, Iowa. âLook at that picture,â 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. âNow look at this,â McNeil continued, opening his cardboard Big Mac container to reveal the pathetic, lopsided mess within. âIt looks like somebody shit this out of a tube of Big Macs,â McNeil announced. âIâd take this back but they guy up there doesnât speak any English.â âThe fast food industry is unique in that it has little accountability,â said attorney Bharti. âIf you bought a toaster and found it to be malformed and unappealing inside the box, youâd 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. Itâs an enviable racket.â âMcDonaldâs listens to its customers and has vowed to make a change for the better,â claimed Rozenich with something close to a straight face. âThis $10 million settlement is something McDonaldâs takes very seriously, it will take us at least seven minutes to make that money back.â the commune news is presented with closed captioning for the hearing impaired. What? Itâs not? What? What? Sorry, we canât hear you! Ramrod Hurley isnât married to actress Elizabeth Hurley, but thanks you for the sexual fantasy material.
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 December 10, 2001
There is No "I" in "Camp Songs"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...
º Last Column: There's A Bustle in My Hedgerow º more columns
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 Hedgerowº more columns
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|  June 27, 2005
I Plead "Not Guilty" to the Charge of Breeding VelocimonkeysThat'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...
º Last Column: My Fucking Living Will Just Died 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 Diedº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Give me liberty or give me something better, and kick it in the ass this time, I'm late already.”
-Henry Patrick WellsFortune 500 CookieYou will finally get that monkey off your back, but the tattoo removal fees will cripple your already weak home dog-waxing business. Try parting your hair on the left this week. Couldn't hurt. Look out for people dressed in blue. Nobody likes you.
Try again later.Best-Selling Video Games| 1. | Grand Theft Ottoman | | 2. | The Al Qaeda Flight Simulator | | 3. | Rockabilly Jeopardy | | 4. | Jerry Seinfeld's X-Treme Game About Nothing | | 5. | Final Fantasy XI: Judy and Audrey Landers | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Sanchez Vickle 10/28/2002 TV REPAIRFat patterns pulsing in stitches of static erratic and plastic, the spastic display. With a bang and a kick and a "cheap motherfucker!" an emergency side-slapping repair is performed. The picture then jittered and shimmied and quivered then twisted all sideways, the image deformed. With a hearty "hiya!" like the best fake karate pissed off fists of fury rained down on the set. A homemade remedy for that TV set voodoo, a righteous exorcism time-tested and true. But with one kick too many the screen split like a prism and with an ass-rattling blurt that cheap cocksucker died. Now, most would be ready to cash in the towel. To blow a foul "Taps" 
Fat patterns pulsing in stitches of static erratic and plastic, the spastic display. With a bang and a kick and a "cheap motherfucker!" an emergency side-slapping repair is performed. The picture then jittered and shimmied and quivered then twisted all sideways, the image deformed. With a hearty "hiya!" like the best fake karate pissed off fists of fury rained down on the set. A homemade remedy for that TV set voodoo, a righteous exorcism time-tested and true. But with one kick too many the screen split like a prism and with an ass-rattling blurt that cheap cocksucker died. Now, most would be ready to cash in the towel. To blow a foul "Taps" into a snot rag, goodnight. But not on my watch! No, I cannot abide it. You will not go gently, you green plastic hunk of Taiwanese shit. So I break out my tool box, and with saw in hand, I proceed to gut it, this department store brand. And oh what wonders pour forth from its cavernous womb! All transistors and vacuum-sucked tubes. Delightful chrome marvels mysterious in hue. And though I could not save it this shitbox complex, the labyrinth of doodads built only to vex, I have other plans for this flat-lining set. These parts could prove handy, and I'm one to bet they could be glued together to make a grand UFO that might scare the brown vittles out of Clem down the road.   |