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<title>Ronald McDonald | Autocento of the breakfast table</title>
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<h1 class="title">Ronald McDonald</h1>
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<p>When Ronald McDonald takes off his <a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">striped shirt</a>,<br />his coveralls, his painted face: when he no longer looks<br />like anyone or anything special, sitting next to women</p>
<p>in bars or standing in the aisle at the grocery,<br />is he no longer Ronald? Is he no longer happy to kick<br />a soccer ball around with the kids in the park,</p>
<p>is he suddenly unable to enjoy the french fries<br />he gets for his fifty percent off? I’d like to think<br />that he takes Ronald off like a shirt, hangs him</p>
<p>in a closet where he breathes darkly in the musk.<br />I’d like to believe that we are able to slough off selves<br />like old skin and still retain some base self.</p>
<p>Of course we all know this is not what happens.<br />The Ronald leering at women drunkenly is the same who<br />the next day kicks at a ball the size of a head.</p>
<p>He is the same that hugs his children at night,<br />who has sex with his wife on the weekends when they’re<br />not so tired to make it work, who smiles holding</p>
<p>a basket of fries in front of a field. He cannot<br />take off the facepaint or the <a href="roughgloves.html">yellow gloves</a>. They are<br />stuck to him like so many feathers with the tar</p>
<p>of his everyday associations. His plight is that<br />of everyone’s—we are what we do who we are.</p>
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