Fries with that*

 (* A semi-dip into our noxious political waters, although not much of one. Blobophiles who wish to leave the room, however, may do so at this time. Just make sure you have a hall pass.)

Saw the photo op of Donald John Trump "working" as a McDonald's stunt double yesterday, and it made me chuckle. This was partly because our soon-to-be Senator Bootlick, aka Jim "Jimbo" Banks, said it was proof the Crown Prince of Mar-a-Lago was a "man of the people", and never mind that gold toilet business.

But it also made me chuckle because I actually worked at McDonald's, back when dinosaurs strode the earth.

Worked there most of a summer after my senior year in high school, and you know how long ago that was? It was so long ago we all still wore those paper garrison caps -- white for trainee, blue for employee, red for manager, if memory serves. It was so long ago they still put paper rings around the Big Macs to hold them together, and the store stayed open until 1 in the morning on the weekends.

Taking orders that last hour wasn't a job, it was an adventure. That's when all the stoners came in (it was 1973, after all) and took 15 minutes pondering life's great mysteries, like whether they wanted a chocolate, strawberry or vanilla shake.

Eventually they settled on all three. 

Now I see that Donald John Trump dishing up an order of fries makes him a man of the people, and I have a better idea. It's the perfect way he could actually be a man of the people, or as much of one as a guy could be who's never done a real day's work in his life.

Forget the the photo ops, in other words. I want to see Training Wheels Mussolini deal with some french-fried burnout at 12:55 a.m.

I want to see him work the fry vat for six hours and go home coated with grease, from paper hat all the way to regulation black patent leathers.

I want to see him keep his cool when some Red Hat who thinks he's Napoleon at Austerlitz swipes his grimy fingers across your counter and makes you wipe it down again.

I want to see him handle a spatula on grill duty, garnish a burger with just the right amount of ketchup, mustard and diced onion, work lot-and-lobby for eight straight hours.

Mop that floor, Donny. Empty the trash cans and haul the bags out to the incinerator. Patrol the parking lot picking up more trash. Do all of it again, like, six or eight times as the clock crawls along on its hands and knees.

Lastly, I want to see his face when he gets a look at his paycheck. That would be some quality entertainment.

Of course, he'd probably blame its meagerness on all those Haitian Venezuelan drug cartels taking over our communities and eating Fido. Or, you know, on the crooked FBI, the crooked DOJ, the crooked media and the crooked Biden economy.

Because Donny gonna be Donny. Man of the people or not.