I have received quite a bit of criticism for my love of the McChicken sandwich. I brought her home to meet the readers, and the readers have spoken. Sadly, we decided to end our short, but wonderful time together. I guess at the end, you think a bit more about the beginning. Yesterday, I tried to remember how I fell in love with the breaded chicken with the gloppy mayonnaise and the few shreds of lettuce. I remembered the time when I saw her there on the TV, when I was told that Olympians ate McChicken sandwiches.

I researched it a bit more. What else do Olympians consume? My friends, the answer is Coca-Cola. Consider this imperative request: “Live Olympic on the Coke side of life.” This was the advertising slogan of Coke this August. I first fell in love with the McChicken sandwich because I thought that it would bring me closer to being like an Olympian. But now I find out that all I had to do was drink Coke.

This revelation has helped me to overcome the emotional trauma of my separation with the McChicken sandwich. But it also brings up a whole new list of questions. Will Sprite make me live Olympic? It is, after all, a Coke product. Will Coke make me just good enough to qualify for the Olympics? Or will it make me good enough to medal at the Olympics? What strange magic does Coke employ to make its drinkers Olympians?

I feel there is only one way to answer these questions. I will begin drinking Coke regularly. Soon, my friends, I will be an amazing athlete. This regimen will not be easy. I don’t want to take any chances, so I will be drinking as much Coke as I can, say maybe 10-12 cans a day. Only in this way will I be assured incredible athletic prowess. I do this in the name of science and of the improvement of human achievement. Wish me luck as I begin my noble endeavor.

He gazed upon the decimation as would a lion upon a wounded gazelle. Broken forms strewn across the landscape only served to heighten his sense of urgency, his appetite insatiable. Without pity, without mercy, the process had become monotonous, yet he did not bore or tire. As the piles of used shells grew, he was left with only one thought–where his life would turn when his task was completed. But rather than regret the fact that his efficiencies were the cause of his inevitable obsolescence, it gave him more pride in his craft.

With a smirk of triumph did he find the last one, hiding underneath the carcasses of his comrades in a vain and desperate hope of escape. Such tricks would not work. Such tricks only added to the satisfaction of the hunt. In a moment, it was over. The man gently dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin and then left as he came, the carnage displayed proudly on the table for all to see.

I like eating clams because it’s a power trip. Does that make me a bad person?