One of the many unpleasant
dooms that can await an average American
burnout. Sure, you're an
assistant manager, and you make a full
dollar twenty-five more than the rest of the
acne-infested high school
rejects that work at the home of
America's favorite French fries. You've realized that at age twenty-eight you're already so sick of life that the thought of a meaningful existence is little more than a haunting piece of philosophical
slapstick to amuse yourself as you read a
Hustler on your
toilet that never stops running.
McDeath. Or...
You're employee of the month. You make a nickel more than the foul-mouthed temptress who never fails to regale you with tales of her decadent free time with her fellowship of drunks and addicts. You can't bring yourself to look down on her, because you are an acne-infested high school reject working at the home of America's favorite French fries. You are working because your mom insists that it isn't healthy to be playing Everquest and Half-Life with every second of your free time. She secretly hopes that you miraculously develop a social life after experiencing the esprit de corps of a part-time job.
McDeath. Or...
You're seventy. You don't know it, but in exactly one year your face will be getting a makeover at the local funeral parlor. You busted your ass from the moment you graduated to the day you threw your back out and settled out of court for an early retirement. You fought a war, you threw tires, you mowed your lawn. Now you meet a group of crusty old codgers like yourself that you don't really like every morning at six o'clock for coffee with a really big CAUTION: HOT on it. You complain about the village aldermen and frown at the hungover expression of the acne-infested high school reject working at the home of America's favorite French fries. You have ceased your struggle to find a purpose long ago, and now you just wallow in the throngs of your pending
McDeath.
Thanks to MALTP for proofreading.