expiredmilkn lies blogs

It’s 2 a.m. in the early 90s, the car smells like cheap beer, sweat, and bad decisions. I’m crammed in the backseat with a grease-stained paper bag in my lap, praying McDonald’s fries will soak up just enough alcohol to keep me from waking up face-down in a stranger’s yard. True story — happened once, but that’s for another day.

The fries weren’t food, they were first aid. You’d pass them around like communion wafers, salty medicine in a red box, and for a few minutes the world made sense again.

And then there’s the McRib. Every couple years it comes crawling back onto the menu like an unwanted ex. The McRib is like herpes — it never really goes away, it just hides until you’re vulnerable, then shows up dripping in sauce.

But that’s McDonald’s game. They’re not in the food business — they’re in the theater business. Fries are the props, “limited-time only” is the script, and the Golden Arches? That’s the spotlight pulling you back in no matter how many times you swore you were done.

Meanwhile, while you’re debating nuggets, they’re stacking deeds like Monopoly champs. Burgers are the sideshow. Real estate is the empire.

McDonald’s is a textbook carton of Expired Milk & Lies — looks comforting, tastes familiar, but you know deep down it’s been spoiled for decades. And just like those fries at 2 a.m., you keep reaching in anyway, licking the salt off your fingers, pretending it’s healing you.