Eagerly awaiting the prize that is soon to be hers, the large woman sits down at her table. She is quite a bulky woman; her elastic-banded, light-blue denim pants are pushed to their max, the fabric tightened almost painfully about their enlarged owner like a sausage skin. Her pastel yellow tee shirt sags from all angles.

Across sits her husband. He is of almost the same stature as the woman, but with the good sense to wear clothing slightly larger than his bulk.

Together they sit with their child; a newborn one can only assume awaits the same bulky fate at the hands, forks, and spoons of his parental units. He screams relentlessly, perhaps foreseeing this very future.

The family prepares to share a meal, something meticulously crafted by the food artisans retained by the McDonald’s corporation. The woman opens the white paper bag and retrieves a Quarter-Pounder With Cheese. The hot, fresh sandwich drips with pieces of molten cheese. After a brief moment of observation, as if scanning for weaknesses, she bites into the doomed burger with abandon, sending hapless poppy seeds airborne into many directions.

Her jaw muscles go to work on the newly acquired meat and bread. Juice drips from her lips onto her pale chin. It is quickly dapped and blotted away with the cooperation of an abetting napkin.

When the bite is sufficiently disposed of, she frowns. Brings the Quarter-Pounder With Cheese up close for an unyielding visual inspection, prodding it with a finger.

Suddenly she spins the burger around for her husband to view and exclaims, “This isn’t a Double!”

The Quarter-Pounder With Cheese is immediate thrust back into it’s cardboard coffin and replaced inside the bag. It is soon on its way back to wince it came, spared the demise beset for it and all like it. For it is not a Double.