McDonalds Made me Puke, Santa

Whoever thought of giving small children coagulated hamburgers and cold french fries as a "Breakfast with Santa Claus" wasn't thinking clearly. 

Santa paid us a visit one Saturday morning in the undercroft of our Catholic school, a cafeteria which doubled as a bingo hall on Saturday nights. In the attempt to make us happy, our parents each paid about $5.00 for a sad sack that contained either a McDonald's cheeseburger or hamburger, small fries and a cola, and a commemorative photo taken of us while we sat on the holly-jolly guy's lap. We wanted McDonalds, and for that, our parents were seriously gypted.  We didn't care about meeting Santa. Thinking back, it would've been better to have met Grimace.  

Those of us who lived in the housing project nearby the school used deductive reasoning to figure out our parents were really Santa. There were no chimneys on project rooftops.   Santa would've had to come knock on each of our doors and risk getting jacked. Or, arrested under the assumption that he was a crook theiving homes in the middle of the night. For all we knew, our "special guest" was probably a paid drunk-ala-Barney from the Simpsons who would snarf at our McDonalds before it was served to us.  Needless to say, our guest and the food were both terribly late.

We became crackish five-year-olds waiting on our food fix, restless and whiny.  I also remember I already didn't really feel that well, possibly feeling the onset of a flu.  After a sock puppet show and being forced to stand up and demonstrate nine different reasons why we're "happy and we know it," my insides began to rumble a tune that said otherwise.  A half hour later, there's a radio blasting throughout the cafeteria and some people come rushing in with cardboard trays stuffed with crumpled McDonald's sacks. Finally. It was grubbing time. We sat at tables ripping our bags apart in unison like trained Navy Seals doing a drill and stuck our straws in half-filled cups of soda that no longer had ice. I don't remember what my Mom was doing. Sights and sounds of smacking and food shoveling is about all I remember.  As I chewed, I noticed my food was cold and the onions, ketchup and mustard had become a congealed gravy on top of the hamburger. The bun didn't look soft and fresh like it looked in the commercial. I walled it up in my mouth anyway and washed it down with my warm soda.  I don't even recall the fries.

After we finished eating, we lined up with our parents to meet Santa. For some reason, Disco was playing. By the time I was second in line, the Bee Gees', "Stayin' Alive" had come on and my stomach began to churn. For one, I'd eaten way too fast. I remember my mouth watering like it does when vomit's around the corner. Appropriately timed right after the part of "Stayin' Alive" that goes, "Life goin' nowhere...somebody help me!" and the "OHHHHHH!," vomit hit the ground.  My mother scooped me up and took me to the restroom and then took me home.  I remember apoligizing for "wasting her money," and I didn't meet Santa that day.