Dear McDonalds,
I can accept your food for what it is: greasy, salt-laden, sugary awesomeness. We don't darken your doors all that often...and I appreciate that you've offered up the gesture of apple slices and white milk. It's a nice thought...honest!
No, as a parent, I can accept the food for what it is...and can regulate my Monkey accordingly. This missive is not about the food....it's about the toys.
In the last seven years we have acquired, broken, saved, and surreptitiously destroyed dozens of your Happy Meal toys. Most of them are worthless and uninteresting, but they're an effective bribe to get a kid to eat...so I'm cool with that...
...until now.
Now, you've crossed the line.
Seriously??? KidsBop?!? Thanks to you, I'm not just tripping over Mr. Incredible's speedy car on the living room floor...no...now I have to be subjected to a toneless nobody emulating Avril Lavigne with the kindergarten chorus belting "Chill out! Whatcha yelling for?" And how do I feel about my 7-year old knowing the words to Kryptonite? Not as awful as I feel having to hear some pre-pubescent schmo sing it! It's torture beyond the eventual obesity from your crispy little fries.
If this weren't a family show, I'd present you with some strongly-worded thoughts that accurately capture my feelings. As it is, I'm thinking I'll simply lock your CEO in a room with the pretend-Daughtry and his perky KidsBoppy minions and let them sing to you about Going Home until your ears bleed.
Hugs and schnoodles,
~me
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