A Beat Poet Celebrates McRib's Return

To be performed in a dimly lit coffeehouse, accompanied by an upright bass, intermittent bongos, and the faint smell of barbecue sauce.

(The poet approaches the microphone. He wears a black turtleneck, a beret, and the expression of a man who has read too much Kerouac and not enough nutritional information.)

(He snaps his fingers three times.)

Dig.

The pig.

The gig.

Is it pig?

No. The McRib.

(Bongos.)

Gone, baby.

Gone like yesterday's revolution.

Gone like the American dream.

Gone like my third wife, Sheila,

who took the Subaru

and my first-edition Ginsberg.

But now—NOW—

the universe has spoken.

The golden arches

have opened their greasy arms

to welcome back the prodigal mystery meat.

(Long pause. A single bass note.)

Oh, sweet mystery of processed "swine."

You boneless Buddha.

You saucy messiah.

You pressed and formed

approximation of anatomical truth.

WHAT are you?

What ARE you?

What are YOU?

Rib without rib.

Meat without meaning.

A sandwich without permanence.

Like existence itself.

(Finger snaps from the audience.)

I wandered the streets of this concrete Babylon,

past the banks,

past the churches,

past a man selling bootleg DVDs

from the trunk of a 2006 Impala.

Searching. Yearning. Hungering.

Then I saw it.

A sign.

From God

Speaking from a burning bush

Known as McDonald's at 81st & Mingo.

THE McRIB IS BACK.

And I wept

tears of tangy barbecue transcendence.

(The bass player begins a slow, wandering riff.)

They say you are temporary.

A seasonal lover. A fleeting flame.

Here today,

gone when corporate inventory

determines the time is right.

But aren't we all, baby?

Aren't we all

limited-time offers

in the drive-thru

of eternity?

(He removes his sunglasses, revealing a second pair of sunglasses.)

Two pickles.

Raw onions.

A sesame-free bun.

And a slab of something

that once knew

the distant whisper

of a farm.

Or a lab.

Who knows?

Who cares?

Oh, McRib.

You magnificent fraud.

You edible contradiction.

You saucy little existential crisis.

I held you in my trembling hands

like a sacred text.

And when I took that first bite,

I heard the voices of the ancients.

Socrates whispered,

"Know thyself."

Nietzsche declared,

"God is dead."

And somewhere,

in the vast cathedral of the infinite,

a teenage cashier shouted,

"ORDER NUMBER FORTY-TWO!"

(Bongos intensify.)

I ate.

And I ate.

And I ate.

Till my fingers were stained

with the blood-red sauce

of American capitalism

and a lab experiment served as dinner.

Till my beard glistened

with the sweet nectar

of industrialized pork.

Till my soul cried out—

MORE!

MORE!

MORE!

And the cashier said,

"Sir, you have to order another one."

(Silence.)

But I knew.

I knew this love could not last.

For the McRib is a cruel mistress.

She comes.

She goes.

She returns.

She disappears.

Like the tides.

Like the moon.

Like Sheila, when she needs money.

(A mournful saxophone joins the bass.)

And so I sit

beneath the fluorescent stars

of this fast-food firmament,

clutching my receipt

like a ticket to nirvana.

For we are all McRibs, baby.

Pressed into shapes

we never chose.

Smothered in expectations.

Served between the buns

of an indifferent universe.

And someday,

without warning,

we too

shall be discontinued.

(He looks toward the heavens.)

But not today.

No, baby.

Not today.

For today,

the McRib has returned.

And somewhere in America,

a man in a paper hat

is asking the eternal question:

"Would you like to make that a combo?"

(Long pause.)

Yes, brother.

Yes.

Make it a combo.

Make it a revolution.

Make it large.

(He leans into the microphone.)

And hold the onions.

They give me gas.

(One final bongo beat.)

Dig.

(The poet exits. The bass player continues for another four minutes because nobody has the courage to stop him.)