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Healthy Fast Food and Cigarette Companies That Care

When Bad Companies Go Good

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by Jason Roth

Have you seen the latest R.J. Reynolds anti-smoking commercial? Their PR team, working in beautiful harmony with their legal department, have chosen to brag about such wholesome, presumably court-mandated topics as:

• Their online "parents resource center" (for adult smokers who can't figure out how to say "Do as I say, not as I do" convincingly enough)

• Thousands of videotapes R.J. Reynolds has sent to convenience store owners to educate them on the fine art of attaching a "We Card" sticker to a plate-glass door

The best part of this commercial is a scene in which a store owner and employee are sitting in the back room watching the videotape. These two bozos are actually enraptured by the words of some socially conscious actor (socially conscious enough to work for a tobacco company) telling them how to say the words "Can I see some ID?" like the act is comparable to hostage negotiation. You ask for the goddamn ID, it's not brain surgery.

One can only imagine the contents of the videotape. I guarantee you that the phrase "facial hair" comes up at least once. E.g.:

"Don't let the presence of facial hair deceive you. If the customer looks as though he still may be able to piss without the aid of a plastic tube, you must ask for his birth certificate and passport, and count the number of rings in his asshole, or else you'll put us at risk of another class-action lawsuit, you pathetic stooge!"

Jesus Christ, where do the government regulations end, and the voluntary, self-sodomizations begin?

There's not a single human being who has ever watched one of these R.J. Reynolds anti-cigarette commercials and actually said:

"Wow. You know, honey, I never realized how caring these drug pushers were. All this time, I thought they just wanted us to smoke until our lungs fell out. But now I realize that deep down, they're really just selling us this stuff so that they can help us to quit! I feel so warm and fuzzy, I think I'll go out and buy some more cigarettes. You know, to help spread the fucking love!"

Everyone who watches these things (except, of course, for the people who make them) know bullshit when they see it. But even if there were people watching these commercials who actually wanted to educate themselves about the hazards of smoking, do you really think they'd do it with literature produced by R.J. Reynolds? Sure. And if I'm on the fence about religion, I'm going to read the fucking Pope's argument against the existence of God. And please, Mr. Used Car Salesman, tell me why I shoudn't buy this car.

It's bad enough that a company that produces a known carcinogen should apologize for itself. (Either produce the fucking carcinogen, or don't produce it!) But now we have two companies that I truly love bowing down before the feet of the guilt-tripping do-gooders, assuming "do-gooder" can be defined as someone who wields a certified, government-issued Glock 9-millimeter and tells you to be nice or else they're going to aim it at your head and haul your ass off to prison. The companies I'm talking about, the latest in the anti-pleasure assault, are the fast-food chains.

Driving past a Burger King the other day, I saw a big poster for some kind of grilled-chicken-shaped object on a baguette. I shit you not - a baguette - in the establishment famous for two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese... in other words, the same crap that's on a Big Mac.

The only thing French-sounding that should ever be served in a Burger King is a Croissan'wich, and I'm only allowing that since the pansy-ass French word has been sufficiently butchered. (French fries don't count, since the French are too fucking pompous to take credit for anything fried that comes with a sauce as plebian as ketchup. French fries are about as French as Pepe Le Pew.)

And worse yet, McDonald's has announced a test-run of their first "adult version of the Happy meal" (as the Associated Press has so lovingly slanted the story) to be known as the "Go Active" meal. The meal, being test-marketed at 150 stores in Indiana, will include "a salad, an exercise booklet and a pedometer meant to encourage walking."

Ok, enough is enough.

I don't want McDonald's making things healthy. I don't want McDonald's to design their menu as if I'm gonna be eating there every day. I'm not gonna be eating there every day. And when I do eat there, I want it to fucking taste like McDonald's! I don't want the fucking McSprout sandwich. I want potatoes fried in oil and I want hamburgers made out of cow. Not some kind of soy piece of shit pounded into a cow-shaped patty, or a bunch of lettuce leaves thrown in a box along with a device meant to measure how many calories I burn between trips to fast-food restaurants. If I want to burn calories, I'll go to a fucking gym. And you know what? I do go to a fucking gym! And when I'm done at the gym, occasionally I'd like to have something to eat that doesn't resemble brown fiberglass or taste like something a bird would use to patch up a weathered nest.

I don't expect Dunkin' Donuts to serve a diet, jelly-filled, chocolate-covered cruller, and I don't want to see Baskin Robbins promote their sugar-free ice cream to anyone but a diabetic. And for Jesus fucking Christ's sake, I sure as hell don't want to walk into a McDonald's and see a picture of Robert Atkins or Richard Simmons staring me in the face. Give me the fat, carbs, calories, sugar, and salt, and keep your opinions about my health to yourself. I'll take care of myself. I don't need the goddamn Fry Guys as my nutritionists.

You've built your reputation by selling food that tastes good and is bad for me. Don't change that. If you do, I'll stop giving you my money. If I want food that's healthy, I'll make my own sandwich. Which is what I do the other 29 out of 30 days. All I ask is that you allow me the opportunity to partake in a single, unobstructed walk up to your cashiers once a month and let me order a "number 1", without "number 1" being green, mayonnaiseless, or worse yet, containing an object that counts footsteps.

Fry it, put it in a bag, and shut your goddamn mouth.

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