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Sunday, April 6, 2014

Lost in Fast-Food Translation.

Paris, France, 10 years before.

Russell had about a hundred euros to his name, but all he could think of was getting something to eat. The last track practice left an airy void in his stomach which kept protesting giving him warning growls that could compete with those of a bear. 

He spotted a McDonald's across the street. And although he doesn't eat out often, he felt that a crispy McChicken would hold him over for the next few hours.

Unlike back home, this McDs was worse with the line ups. For a large portion of country to dislike Americans with a such a passion, it appeared that the French shared the same affinity to high caloric and greasy foods.

Russell made it to the counter. He didn't even need to look at the menu since he always ordered the same thing.

He smiled at the cashier, who was a young petite girl. "J'aimerai avoir un MacPoulet, s'il vous plait." May I have a McChicken, please.

The cashier scrunched up her face, narrowing an eye."Quoi?"

"Un MacPoulet."

"Tu veux un quoi?"

Russell couldn't believe this. They had to have chickens in France. How could she not know what a MacPoulet is.

"Vous connaissez le poulet," Russell then proceeded in bending both arms to look like chicken wings and moved them while bobbing his head. "Ca fait, Pwok, Pwok, Pwok! Tu sais, le poulet. Je veux un MacPoulet
et en trio."

The cashier suddenly burst out laughing. "Ah, je comprends. Vous demandez pour un MacChicken."

Russell scrunched up his face. "Un what?"

The End

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