A day in the life of a Ronald McDonald

When I worked on the McDonald’s account the average regional Ronald McDonald earned about $80,000 a year.

At the time, this would have bought you a high-rise apartment on a busy downtown street, with a doorman who greeted every day with a hearty, ‘Good morning, Mr. McDonald!’

There would be rules. Life is not all fun and sunshine for a regional Ronald. You’d be banned from flying on helicopters, for example, because one day, one little boy’s birthday party went horribly, horribly wrong.

You’d also be contractually bound not to break character in public, which means you’d have to be a clown in the lobby of your building, and in the elevators. You’d have to talk to your neighbors about Mayor McCheese and get serious when they asked about the Grimace. “Hey,” you would tell them. “That guy is a sick fuck.”

You’d be a clown when you shambled down the hallway at night with your mail and your carry-out pad thai. You’d flash a big red grin at your neighbors, and they’d watch your big red feet disappear into a darkened apartment, hear the deadbolt turn.

You would never get a single trick-or-treater.