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.�

he stock market took a major shit Monday, with big-shot tycoons throwing their concubines out skyscraper windows and countless pairs of silk boxers being clenched in nervous buttocks at the close of trading. Hundreds of snotty assholes lost a bundle and had to be chauffeured home to cry themselves to sleep on their pillows sewn with golden thread.

Day traders could be heard pissing and moaning loudly up and down Wall Street all day, and the world’s tiniest violin played just for them as little orphaned children brought them steaming cups of hot chicken noodle soup.

The NASDAQ closed down 53.17 points, at its lowest close since the last time those mama’s boys took it on the chin and their counterparts, the man-dressing woman traders, were kicked in the cock-socket.

Trading volume was so-so, with stuffed shirts milling around restlessly all day, slapping each other’s asses and trying to get a rally started to save their precious timeshares in the Hamptons.

After an ass-dragging start, stock prices got a momentary boost from data released early Monday that showed a great sale going on at a nearby Mercedes-Benz dealership, exciting the day traders and convincing them that this was their lucky day and they should buy anything that smelled like a stock.

But the early rally crapped out by lunchtime when traders received a dispiriting report of dour financial news, casting a shadow over the market. Tyco International Chief Executive L. Dennis Kozlowski announced that he had a paper cut, and everybody stopped trading for at least a half an hour while they made wincing faces and told stories of other times when they’d had paper cuts. It was announced that John Fort, Tyco’s CEO from 1982 to 1992, will take control of the whole shebang until Kozlowski gets out of the hospital.

Tyco’s stock price plunged while everyone was farting around and getting donuts or whatever, and other stocks began to plummet as traders who hadn’t been paying attention began a selling frenzy to make it look like they were on top of the ball. Overall stocks slumped 26.9 percent in the next hour until the heads of two investment firms got into a heated argument over whose turn it was with the remote and if it was okay to watch the 1985 Oliver Stone film Wall Street on the Big Board.

Kent Engelke, markets strategist at Burntwhistle & Limey, said the strong sell-off was due to confusion among traders about data on the nation’s economic recovery. That afternoon’s agricultural report sparked arguments over whether peanuts grow on bushes or on trees, and data from the manufacturing sector confused traders who assumed that toasters were made in the back of the toaster store. Traders also could not agree on what Mexican money was called, if it was pesos or guapos, he added.

“We were hit with some big shocks today, that’s for sure. Like, did you know they have people working in factories nowadays? Actually putting together toys and cars and what have you. It’s not all robots like you’d think. Talk about some poor bastards,� Engelke said after having the silver spoon slapped out of his mouth.

I have never before been interested in music. Music is like water, as far as I'm concerned, and me being mostly oil, we do not mix. But this has changed recently now that Lee is part of my scene.

In addition to all his other talents, Lee is, as he put it, a wicked bassist. Some thump the bass, Lee says, some prick it; Lee makes love to it. He has been thrown out of numerous bands for this, especially Christian rock bands, but he sees it as an asset. And whatever Lee sees, Rok sees, good people. That's why I have decided to form a rock musical band.

It's a good idea—anybody can see it's a good idea. Building a sharp power trio around our infallible bassist Lee. The only problem is that the other members of our power trio have, how Lee phrased it, "absolutely no musical ability." Not that this will stop us, it merely slows us, like the molasses swamp in Candyland.

I thought it was genius to put Camembert on drums, since you always see drummers sitting down in musical videos, and Camembert is always sitting down because he is paralyzed. Well, guess what? Drummers use their feet for something. I believe it's some kind of big drum they kick or something, traditional in rock music. Camembert informed me we could avoid this by playing bluegrass, but if you think I got into music to end up on some Coen Brothers film soundtrack, you're dead wrong. Rok plays rock, or nothing at all. So right now we're playing nothing at all. But Lee said Camembert can rig up some electronic cheat like the drummer from Def Leopard who only has one arm, or John Bonham, who was drunk into oblivion most of the time he played.

Which leaves me as the problem spot on this hard-to-clean sofa. I play nothing. I do not even play video games, which is just as well since that would be the strangest band since Devo. So while Camembert has a chance of playing drums in our band very well, I have no chance of playing anything. True, I own a grand piano, but that's always more for lying seductively on and enticing the ladies rather than playing piano-style. I tried playing it once and the neighbors sealed all exits and set the apartment on fire, which doesn't bode well for trying to learn again. And the last time I tried playing a guitar I tightened the strings too much and lost a finger.

My best luck so far has been in reading my spoken-word poetry while standing in a box full of cats. I find that if I do a little two-step in the box I produce noises, in no certain order or tone, but it is a sort of tenor that sounds good with the bass and drums, at least how I imagine the drums will sound. Our sound is sometimes defined as punk, post-punk, proto-punk or alternative. At least that's how Lee defined it, our neighbors say it is pure shit, post-vomit, proto-garbage or gangrenous cock.

Not that we're letting it stop us. You don't let a little thing like a horrible sound stop you from forming a band with a tremendous bass talent. I'm not ashamed to say with our big drumless drumming and cat-stomping poetry-reading sound that Lee is carrying our band. Without Lee, there would be no band.

In fact, this is so true that, upon reflection, the band has no need for me. I think I'll hang up my box of cats strap and call it a career. That still makes my time in the music spotlight longer than Taylor Dayne. Camembert can do what he wants, but since I forced him into this venture with thinly-veiled threats anyway, he'll probably drop out as well. Which leaves Lee to carry on with the band, a band only in namesake, basically a front to showcase his talents.

That bastard. The least he could have done was meet with Master C and me before kicking us out of the band. Screw him. Camembert and I will form our own band. He thinks he's the big talent, eh? That we're not the spirit of the band itself? We'll show him.

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