Monday, November 29, 2004

Thank You. Please Drive Around.

My son’s birthday was two and a half months ago but it wasn’t until this weekend that we finally got around to assembling one of his gifts – a city with roads and buildings and traffic signals for his toy cars to cruise. It took Hot Wife and I a total of two man hours to put the city together, what with all of the stickers and moving parts and pieces of gray plastic that snapped together only with the application of brute force and, one occasion, the blunt end of a ball-peen hammer.

One of the buildings on the outskirts this little plastic city is a replica of a McDonalds, complete with a dangerous little playground out front and a flunky high school kid with catastrophic, puss-spewing acne standing at the drive-thru window. It occurred to me as I snapped the little golden arches onto the top of the red plastic roof that if the makers of the toy were going for absolute realism, they fell painfully short. Note the following shortcomings:

1) If there is going to be a little plastic McDonalds, shouldn’t a little plastic liposuction clinic also be part of this fantasy city? After all, who is going to suction the fat from the necks, backs and spare tires of the Big-Mac-devouring, Shamrock-shake-guzzling, French-fry-inhaling, McSalad-shaker-shaking people of this town when they wake up at age 35 and discover that they can no longer fit into their die-cast Ford Mustangs without first lathering their hips with Crisco?

2) Where does the god damned therapist live? Unless Dr. Feelgood has an office in the car wash (highly doubtful), there is no place in town for our overweight population to turn when the aforementioned awakening comes to pass and the troubled masses of Fat Ass Land are forced to confront that they have spent too many years anesthetizing their horror over living in a plastic city by engaging in torrid affairs with The Hamburglar (“rubble-rubble-rubble”) and shoveling down Filet O’ Fishes like tartar sauce was heroin and they were Rick James.

3) Perhaps it’s just a simple oversight on the part of the toy’s designers, but there is no airport in this God-forsaken city, which means none of its people will be flying on Southwest Airlines, which means none of them will be able to read my article on the legendary old burger joints of Los Angeles in the December issue of Southwest Airlines Spirit Magazine. That’s just criminal.

4) Hello? Starbucks?

5) There’s no supermarket and I happen to know from recent experience that eating a steady diet of McGriddles necessitates the acquisition of a variety of common grocery items, including laxatives, analgesics and the occasional item of adult incontinence couture. If these people don’t have access to such basic gastrointestinal crutches, there is likely to be a river of little plastic people shit cascading down 1 McDonalds Road, overwhelming the poor fire engine with the chipped red paint and submerging the black Trans Am, T-top and all.

I trust that the next iteration of this toy will be more accurate. In the meantime, I’ll have a Big Mac combo with a Diet Coke. And Super Size it, please.


At 3:14 PM, Blogger honestyrain said...

have you seen this Hot Wheels volcano dealie? it has this sludge stuff that you pour in the top and as you let the cars run down the path along its side the goo drips all over them. um, hello. pardon me. what the HELL are they thinking? my 3 year old wants it. my three year old cannot have it. my three year old does not clean up toys that do not emit goo so i can't see his tidying skills improving with this example of absurdity.

and clearly, any town without a starbucks is a hillbilly habitat from which George W Bush likely issued forth.

I'm back on the GWB thing again.


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