Ho-Hos and Ding Dongs
Ronald McDonald, you pedophile,
with your wide red lips and empty lap.
You defiler of childish ease. You clown.
Why is your food so good?
Your Big Macs so stacked,
Your french fries so golden?
And what about the Arch nemesis,
with his flame-broiled slabs
of quarter-pound goodness,
sandwiched between two sesame buns.
I’d have my buns my way--
Like garbage bags I'd have them Hefty.
Like a QuikTrip slush I want me large.
When did we become so obsessed
with pounds?
I thought we left the British in 1776.
Skinny bitch, eat a twinkie. Anna Mae,
eat the cake.
I wanna indulge the Cheerio,
I don’t want to wear it. Hula Hoop
it. And don’t tell me you don’t mind
the weight, that its all about personality.
Next time I’ll wear personality
to the grocery store and we’ll see
how much you like that.
Ronald, I thought you loved kids.
There’s a billboard on Hwy 5,
telling plump kids that fat
sucks the fun out of childhood.
You know what sucks the fun
out of childhood? School desks,
pressed as pumpernickel
in a chair attached to the plastic top.
Cafeteria lunches. Recess line up
to pick tag football teams.
Kids should spend 60 minutes outside daily.
The last time I spent an hour outside
I was dining on the patio
at Tony’s Mexican Grill.
Ronald, why do you keep telling me
to exercise? I don’t get high
on running. I can’t see my feet.
I’m handicapped.
Would you ask Tiny Tim
to run a 5k marathon?
I do enough running from teen years, mirrors
and I never liked Ms. Piggy. I am
no athlete. I’m a food connoisseur.
I sample snacks since shopping
is reserved for zeroes and maybe size threes.
I wear my clothes Wal-Mart sharp.
My style assistant is a man named Lane. Mr. Bryant
gives me push-up bras in the hopes
I get a man longing for some cushion pushing.
We hate thongs. Do you know what those are?
Ass floss. Dental care for my biggest cavity.
That doesn’t mean I can’t be fashionable.
I’ve got role models to give me pointers:
Roseanne and Oprah in her purple days.
Weight Watchers, you killed Jennifer Hudson’s
underside. Where did you hide all that evidence?
I remember her before she’d been dismembered.
and now I see her on magazine covers.
I wanna see me in Marie Claire, Cosmopolitan.
I want a two-page spread in Cover Girl.
I wanna strut my ass in Levi jeans.
My hips hear music, my thighs groove.
I want a goddammned perfume ad.
I sweat. I stink. I spend half an hour
scrubbing hard deodorant stains
out of worn white tees.
Don’t tell me men find my phero-funk sexy.
I won’t accept that jive. I wanna rock
to the melodies for Fat Bottomed Girls.
Ronald, when did X-X-X stop meaning sex,
appealing and explicit. When did it need the “L”?
Women with curves used to be Renaissance.
In my bed I’m Venus of Urbino.
My hips are semi-sweet Snocaps.
I am a continuous plane.
I'm 1.4 million pounds of
Jared's nightmare. I'm Ben and Jerry's dream.
Ronald, I have a need to self-satisfy.
Ronald, I get hungry sometimes.
Ronald, do children climb into your lap
and if they sit for a while and cut off
the rush of life to your toes,
make your knees buckle under pressure,
Ronald, what do you do? Push them?
Do you grimace? Laugh?
Ronald do you diet them?
Or do you pat their heads, hand them a McChicken,
and wide-mouth, red lip, ear-to-ear smile?
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