The McDonald's Rule
Until there are Mickey Dees all over the Mideast, it won't be truly settled. "I'm hungry as a bulldog! Baby, how about you?"
The best McDonald's I've ever been to, and like the privileged in my empire I've been to quite a few, was opposite the train station in Basel, Switzerland. It could compete with any grandesions in Munich, London, Tokyo, trumping any quiet men in the hinterlands of Hungary or Prague. Jung and Marx and Freud and Lenin would've been happy meeting in my golden arches, right there in Basel, so close to their apartments. 50 years before, on that spot, they were fresh off their trains and razors' edges. Their lies were whoppers, announced on the special to expand the mindspace and the palate of homo sapiens. With the arches, they have a natural home.
As for the Swiss, well hey they don't make no bad burgers, and the fries...were all done to perfection. In some places, the concept of fast food is misbegotten, and we're still trying to learn how to make it better. Many were the days and nights when I had worked long, and was hungry. When I lacked food and was attracted by those Golden Arches. They meant the promise of a simulated meal, and some meat when I got down too low in the cold to take good care. The Arches were a few blocks from my apartment, beckoning and mocking my anonymity. When there was no one I could trust and my future reached for crutches, the McDonald's was still there.
(graphic via Cat in the Bag)