Sex and McDonald's

Every once in a while I'll pass a McDonald's somewhere on the street. The sweet smell of deep fried french-cut potatoes and ultra-processed meat products mesmerizes the otherwise unsuspecting sensory nodules in my nostrils.

This briefly renders me incapacitated, and an 18th-century House of Commons within my cranium debates the virtues of asceticism, and the mutually exclusive wonders of answering your celestial desires.

After wisely deciding not to eat any of that crap, I came up with a pretty clever analogy.

Eating McDonald's is like having sex.

The best part is the anticipation. The smell and/or other sensory stimulation occurring directly before eating McDonald's/having sex is always much better than the act itself.

Then when everything's over you lie down and try to comprehend what you just put your body through. Very soon you get drowsy, and in the next few minutes you probably nod off like a little lamb in a Spring meadow full of yellow tulips.