WWJD? Egg McMuffins for Latrobe's homeless!

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I was succumbing to a morning need for fuel when my conscience was confronted with a WWJD moment.

These happen to me all the time, mostly in places where the risen Christ wouldn’t be caught dead, places like the drive-thru lane at the Route 30 McDonald’s.

Now, I know better than that. I know McDonald’s is unhealthy, its entire corporate premise is environmentally belligerent, and it owes its colossal origins to Ray Kroc, one of America’s most despicable scoundrels. (I highly recommend the ’17 Michael Keaton flick “The Founder”).

WWJD?

He’d breakfast at The Youngstown Grille! 

Locally-owned, friendly, affordable, generous portions and it’s all delicious. 

Jesus hasn’t been there (yet!) but Arnold Palmer used to go there all the time for French toast. So if you can’t get a Yelp! review from The King of Kings getting a posthumous one from The King will have to do.

But on some days I just want fast fuel and that means fast food. I get a Sausage Biscuit w/ cheese and a small Coke for $2.32. How they do it for so little is a wonder. I donate the 68-cent change to Ronald McDonald House because it’s what I believe Jesus would do.

So I pull in and that’s when I see Latrobe’s homeless man. I’m sure there are many more and having even one is a defeat for a community I’m proud to call home. But this gent is our most visible one.

He pushes a Giant Eagle grocery cart that contains what I assume are all his earthly belongings. He looks maybe 50, but who knows? Elements of this harsh winter may have pre-maturely aged him.

I don’t know what Jesus would do, but here’s what I did:

In addition to my usual order I had them throw in an Egg McMuffin that set me back another $2.79 for a total of $5.11 (the Golden Arches charity scored another 11 cents so I was feeling pretty good about my pious altruisms). 

So I clear the second window and see the guy is on the move. He’s pushing his cart toward Rt. 30.

I roll down my passenger side window and shout, “Hey, man, I have something for you!”

He turns to look then coldly ignores me. His rudeness has me wondering if he’s a former literary agent. That’s a common literary agent’s reaction to my offers. He continues pushing the cart toward the highway crossing.

And the chase is on!

I’m stuck at the red light watching him hump it up the hill on the driveway between Sharkey’s and the Walgreens. I pass him and pull into Walgreens parking lot. I park the car and get out with that steaming 410-calorie gut buster in my hand.

He sees me again and keeps on going. It’s like I’m dealing with a skittish cat.

“Hey, I thought you might like an Egg McMuffin,” I say. “It’s still hot. Should hit the spot.”

Nothing. He keeps on going.

Me, I surrender. I did what I thought was my best and I could not break through. He was unwilling to accept my charity. I get back in my car and drive away and as I do, I give him one last look. What I see surprises.

He’s beaming at me. Honest, he’s grinning like I would if he’d just handed me a McDonald’s sack stuffed with $100 bills.

It’s very odd. I spend most of the morning confused by the entire episode.

What would Jesus do?

I like to think He’d persuade the man to get in his 2007 Saturn Vue with 197,000 miles on it and drive him home where He’d nurture him to soulful health.

I’m tempted to do that very thing. If it works out, it would be the best thing I’d do in my entire life.

But Jesus never had to ask Himself WWVD?

I do.

What would Val or any spouse do if I showed up with a disheveled stranger? She barely tolerates the hours I spend with drinking buddies who have somewhere to go when the bartender yells last call.

So I ended up tossing the Egg McMuffin in the trash and left Latrobe’s most visible homeless man to fend for himself, and me wondering if my good intentions will make a positive difference in my Judgement Day fate.

I hate to see the sandwich go to waste, but I’m one of those guys who worries about saving his figure while still saving his soul.

Related …

A $5 solution to homelessness

Lavish lunches & the choosy beggar

Why I’ll always give to the homeless

Return of the creepy homeless posers

"Founder" Ray Kroc & my abiding burger love

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I was a guest at a social function at an area restaurant when a fellow conversant mentioned she was a vegan. She wasn’t belligerent or disdainful of my carnivore customs so I didn’t feel an urge to bop her on the head with a nearby salami. 

Plus, it gave me the opportunity to use one of my favorite lines without it appearing rehearsed.

“I admire your discipline and your motives,” I said, “but the chances of me ever becoming a vegan are about the same as me ever resuming my virginity.”

I mention this today because Ray Kroc’s restaurant is now offering hamburgers with popular toppings that would infuriate Ray Kroc.

I’m talking about guacamole, dijon, cilantro and — brace yourself — lettuce!

And if there’s one thing Ray Kroc hates, it’s lettuce. 

I know all this because I just forced my family to watch “The Founder,” starring Michael Keaton as Kroc. It’s terrific. You need to see it right away. I’ll watch it with you.

I’ll bring Happy Meals!

Did you know each and every day of the year, McDonald’s feeds 1 percent of the entire world population?

If my wife has anything to do with it, that number will be reduced by microscopic fractions.

Sympathetic to vegetarian impulses already, she now regard’s Kroc’s empire as pure evil. The movie is that powerful.

Almost as powerful as my near-weekly appetite for, say, a Big Mac & fries.

I, too, try and eat ethically, but sometimes my body just craves fuel that’s familiar.

For nearly every American that’s the Golden Arches.

It’s never great, but it always satisfies. So, in some ways, it’s like old M*A*S*H reruns I mentioned yesterday.

They’ll always be there when you need them.

Am I going to try any of the new fancy “craft” burgers McDonald’s is touting? Doubtful.

There are any number of great local restaurants that feature good burgers, and the ones I grill for myself and the family never miss the mark.

Plus, a really great burger is as much a result of situation as construction. I guess the best one I’ve ever had was when I was a kid on vacation at Ocracoke Island on the Outer Banks.

I don’t know where Mom and Eric were that day, but it was just me and Dad. I was probably 12.

I remember him getting the old Ford Fairmont stuck in a roadside dune about 3 feet in front of an big explicit sign that said, “DO NOT PARK ON ROADSIDE DUNES.”

The wheels spun, the sand sprayed. We were hopelessly stuck. I think we had to hike about five miles into town. Starved and grimy, I remember we passed two or three perfectly suitable restaurants until he found one to his liking.

The grill was behind the bar and the sizzle started right away. I don’t remember what was on that great burger. I just remember it being delicious and that the old man drank like 40 beers.

I’ll bet the old timers are still telling Paul Rodell stories in that divey little seaside bar.

Today, a good burger for me includes bacon, dried blue cheese, tomato, dark mustard and, yes, lettuce.

That puts me at odds with Ray Kroc, who despised lettuce the way my wife now despises him.

He demanded every burger be exactly the same: patty, precise equal squirts of mustard and ketchup, two pickles. No deviations.

And no goddamned lettuce.

There’s a hilarious scene in “The Founder” where Kroc is spying on a franchisee’s store when he sees the menu offering — horrors! — chicken. But what really sets him off is seeing a young man eating a McDonald’s burger topped with a leaf of iceberg. 

As Kroc, Keaton sees the lettuce and channels greater rage than he did as Batman after the Dark Knight saw the Joker slay thousands of innocents.

His anger looks so volatile I feared he was going to shoot the hapless customer and then shoot the lettuce. Quaking with anger, he takes the lettuce burger and tracks down the franchisee on the golf course for a nasty confrontation.

Kroc heaves the burger at the offending restaurateur, insults are exchanged. It’s the only part of this otherwise outstanding film that didn’t ring true.

You don’t exchange insults when someone throws a burger at you.

You say thank you!

Then you eat the burger.

Related …

Alien movies & the new Ray Kroc flick

Straw Wars! Battling insidious McDonald’s waste

In praise of profanity

America’s biggest hamburger & America’s biggest ham

Cheers to designated drivers

In praise of profanity

At least once a week I regret my vow to make this a family-friendly blog. See, I’m pro-profanity. I love to swear and my life is enriched with ample provocations to do so.

Happened just this morning.

For reasons of economy, taste and snobbery, I’ve pretty much kicked the fast food habit.

But sometimes the body simply needs fuel. Today I wanted to accomplish a lot in a little time so I swung by the nearest McDonald’s and ordered a sausage biscuit with cheese. The place is notorious for its inefficiency and I hadn’t been there in probably two years.

I zipped through the drive-thru and made it back to my office in under two minutes.

I was pleased to think that maybe my faith in humanity was being restored in that they’ve evolved and learned to work together more efficiently and, yeah, I gave all the credit to Barack.

That will please conservatives because of what happened next.

I unfolded the paper and inside was just the biscuit with cheese.

I’d been awake barely 20 minutes and I screamed my first profanity of the day.

My entire order was just four words long: “sausage biscuit with cheese.” And only three of the words involved food.

I understand in these busy times that many people are distracted and that many of our attention spans have shortened to jiffy fractions. So if the wrapper had contained just a sausage biscuit, I’d have understood.

But how Person A says or prints “sausage biscuit with cheese,” and Person B omits the sausage is incomprehensible.

It is the very essence of any sausage sandwich. I’d wager in the history of McDonald’s history no one’s ever said, “I’d like a biscuit with cheese.”

So now I’m on a mission. I grab the inedible mistake and dash straight back to the drive-thru determined to keep my cool.

I like situational profanity, but using it at someone always makes me feel small. Plus, the store was clearly staffed with idiots who’d have responded to my barbs with either gunfire or dumbfounded stares.

I politely explained to the girl I needed to see the manager. She said, sure, and asked me to pull up to the second drive thru.

No, I’ll wait here, I said.

It was a small act of civil disobedience, but I have a pet theory about the progression of drive thrus and here was an opportunity to perhaps further its potential.

See, there were no drive thrus when I was a boy. Now each restaurant has two. My theory is that in 20 years it will take four drive thrus to screw up each order.

The manager, a sweet grandmotherly lady, approached and heard my complaint. I said I wanted a new sausage biscuit with cheese and compensation for the inconvenience.

“Well, we don’t have any gift certificates here, but I can give you some pie!”

Pie?

As I said, I’m not a frequent patron so I don’t know what McDonald’s breakfast pie would entail. I’ve had and enjoyed quiche, which is a pie-shaped entree. But I’d already ordered my breakfast entree.

I said no thanks. She took my address and said she’d send some gift certificates. Soon she handed me a sack and said, “Here’s your sausage biscuit with cheese -- I put a free hash brown in for you!”

She said it in a way that led me to believe this gesture led past disgruntled customers to emerge from their vehicles and do handsprings around the parking lot.

I just said, “Thank you for your consideration.”

I get back to the office. Opened the sack and unfolded the wrapper. Know what was inside?

Biscuit with cheese, egg and bacon.

I shouted the day’s second profanity with such a reverberating gusto that I imagined flocks of birds simultaneously lifting off from branches all across distant savannahs.

It helped relieve the strain.

That brings me to Joe Biden’s profane gaffe. I was so pleased to see it didn’t inspire the usual holier-than-thou back and forth that’s become so common in our over-heated political climate.

We’re all becoming more comfortable with profanity.

It gives me hope that someday I’ll be able to use all my favorite swear words right here in this family-friendly blog.

And on that day, I’ll tell you exactly what I thought when I bit into that bacon mistake I was too furious to return a second time.

“Hey, this is pretty #@$*-ing good!”

Trashy guy hungering for a litter free neighborhood

I apologize in advance for what I’m about to write because I know it’s bound to sound really, really elitist and we all know how evil elitists are -- at least until we need a couple of them to clean up an incomprehensible $700 billion market collapse.

That being said, here goes:

McDonald’s Restaurants attract trash.

That may sound harsh, but I can prove it. I know because this summer I reached a breaking point about litter in my neighborhood and by my neighborhood, I mean anywhere that’s roughly the width of a sidewalk of where I’m walking.

I do a lot of strolling. Always have. I don’t believe in the no pain/no gain method of exercising. In fact, if something’s even the least bit painful, I stop right away and head to the nearest tavern for soothing refreshment.

I know too many middle aged people like me who suffer painful accidents trying to stay in shape. I have no intention of snapping my Achilles tendon playing basketball, getting shin splints playing tennis, or pulling a muscle while jogging.

I’m so careful I forfeit any activity that’s likely to result in armpit sweat stains.

So for exercise, I walk. I amble. I saunter. I sidle. I tromp. I ramble. I hoof. I gambol. It’s perfectly pleasant and it exercises the mind as much as the midsection. I wave to the old people sitting on the porches, admire the changing seasons and generally commune with my little corner of the world.

But if you walk anyplace in this overcrowded world these days, you’re likely to trip over trash. This happens to me a lot. It never fails to amaze me how many people will simply drop a cup, cigarette pack or Biggie Sized french fry container on the ground rather than walk a few yards to a nearby trash container.

It’s not like there’s a shortage of them either. Heck, you could argue that the world’s practically littered with litter receptacles, too.

Being an observant sort, I couldn’t help but notice how much litter I literally had to step over.

On the way to the grocery store with my daughter, I counted three pieces of idle trash directly between our parked car and the front door. Had I stumbled along in a drunken weave the number would have risen to about eight.

No more, I thought. I bent to pick up each one that was in my way. Josie, who at the age of 8 is already beginning to sense what a torturous embarrassment I’m going to be to her in about two years, asked why I was picking up trash that wasn’t mine.

“It’s not my trash. But it’s my neighborhood. It’s my planet. We all do little things to keep our homes clean. Why shouldn’t we do little things to keep our town clean?”

This made perfect sense, but little did I realize the danger of my logic. I began taking a plastic bag on my walks and picking up any trash in my way. I’ve become sort of a hobby garbageman. I do all the duties noble garbagemen do -- pick up and dispose of trash -- but I do them for free.

And I wonder how many off-duty garbagemen pick up trash in their spare time. Or are they like professional golfers who can’t stand the thought of playing golf on vacation? I’d like to know.

And that brings me to McDonald’s. I tell you, the place is a trash magnet.

The Pond, the friendly tavern above which I work, has very clean parking lots. That’s a credit to the owner, his employees and customers, and to all the parents who raised them.

McDonald’s is another matter entirely. The place is practically surrounded by ugly brown trash cans stationed there like North Korean soldiers standing guard duty over the De-Militarized Zone, but you can practically wade through the trash there. And trash bearing the McDonald’s logo stretches for a mile in both directions.

I stoop down and pick it all up.

What is it about McDonald’s trash that it can’t make its way into the trash cans so near and needy? Is it McDonald’s customers who themselves are trashy? Were they raised by ravenous wolves? Is there something in the special sauce that makes McDonald's customers so careless about simple civic matters? Who knows?

I thought about this during a long walk this morning and all I know is this.

I’ve suddenly got a hankering for a Big Mac and fries.