In Sweden, there are ski-through McDonald's. In Germany, McDonald's serves beer. At the McDonald's five minutes from where I live in Auckland, New Zealand, there is a play structure. As the five children - the four older ones plus a friend - crazy-horse galloped through the restaurant towards the indoor playground, an old woman screamed and a baby cried. The mom and I exhibited more interest in the dinner menu than in her chaos club of crazy cubs. When Geriatrics squawked, wondering who the mother of the mob that almost gave her asthma was, the mom and I discussed words that are difficult to say when intoxicated.
When the mom and I had completed the three rounds of baby- and tray-carrying upstairs, I penetrated that play structure like I was Donald Trump.
"Dinner time," I announced. Five sets of little kid limbs jumbled and jangled to the door. I felt like a child pimp.
I followed behind the five-year-old, the last to exit the wonderland of plastic tubes and slides. We got through the door and to the table before she turned to me with raving berserk eyes.
"It's falling out," she wailed, the words rebounding off the heads and ears of over thirty seated McDonald's patrons.
"Shitrun," I rioted, pointing back towards the play structure and the bathrooms.
She ran, I chased. I feel like a pedophile almost every day. Last Thursday, it was when I picked up the toweled three-year-old after his bath and my hand accidentally cupped his balls.
I was three steps behind the five-year-old and seven from the bathroom door when she bent over like a hunchback and lifted up her jean skirt. Black shit peeked out from her pooper. The five-year-old frequently forgets to wear underwear. Recalling from my Excrement Bible that black turd is a sign of internal bleeding, I was still more hell-bent on getting her ass over a toilet seat than I was concerned for her ulcer potential.
I accelerated next to her and lobbed the door open. The five-year-old penguin-waddled past me with a handful of black excreta about to parachute from her bottom onto the tile. I lifted her by the armpits and chucked her onto the toilet as dung dropped.
I leaned against the open stall door breathing like a leper, sweat sprinkling my body.
"I'm glad I felt it coming," the five-year-old said as she farted wet and Geriatrics from downstairs entered the bathroom.
** Published by The Short Humour Site in September 2010