A little bit of found art here from when my sister was working at a fast food place some years ago…
It’s a disturbing image. Having seen this, I now can’t help but picture little identical fry creatures, sliced with some strange humanoid cutter from the primal potato. There they are, all frolicking in the crystal blizzard from the great shaker in the sky, unaware of their eventual fate.
They know nothing of nutrition, or of food safety practices. They have no idea that they will either be eaten or thrown away. All they know is that some of them will be scooped up into paper boxes. Perhaps their theologians theorize that they will be taken from here to a better, happier, meal-ier place. A place with toys suitable for children ages 4 and up.
The more scientific minded of them point to the crumbs of hash browns as evidence of some strange pre-fry-historic settlement. Sometimes an explorer from the race of Onion Rings visits. Other times, an intrepid band of fries makes the journey instead. Tales are swapped, and passed down from fry to fry, each generation heralded by the mysterious beeping sound.
Meanwhile the Elders, brown and withered, hunker down in the grease at the bottom of the fry bucket, and speak in hushed tones of the “Time of Closing” when all shall be scraped out and made as new for the coming of the “Breakfast Shift.”
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