But Only For A Limited Time
The McRib Is Back
Admiral Biscuit
The McRib is back. Commercials proclaim it and throughout the land people rejoice. Restaurant freezers are stocked, employees are trained—Steve Easterbrook wants to ensure that this will not be a repeat of the Szechuan Sauce fiasco.
The McRib is back. Commercials are aired on radio and on TV, commercials are aired on YouTube and even the McDonald’s app proclaims the arrival of the McRib, returning to participating locations in October.
The internet explodes in anticipation. The McRib is back! A sandwich once removed from the menu due to poor sales suddenly becomes desirable when it can’t be had except for a limited time. Such is marketing.
Television channels facing slow news days shoot a bit of B-reel for the nightly news: there are a few locations where there’s a queue, and in such a queue it’s always possible to find some salt-of-the-earth man who’s driven hours to get his calloused hands on a McRib.
Ideally he’s from someplace in Ohio, maybe Fostoria, because that sounds like the kind of place that might be real and might not be. A place where there aren’t McDonald’s, or if there are, they don’t sell McRibs.
•••••
This isn’t a story about him, although perhaps one day I will tell you that story.
•••••
The McRib is back, and bells ring throughout the land in celebration. Even in the town of Alliance, Nebraska, those echoes are heard over the clanking of coal cars bound from the Powder River Basin.
Railroaders line up at the counter, easily spotted with their high-viz vests and their radios squawking away. The stink of diesel and coal and steel clings to their clothes . . . the bituminous must flow.
Tourists are also in line, maintaining a distance from the railroaders that grime probably can’t cross, for they’re there to visit Carhenge, or they were passing through on US-385 or Nebraska 2 and the McDonald’s is of course conveniently located near the confluence. Right next to a K-Mart, which is surprisingly still in business.
Tourists don’t come to see the K-Mart.
•••••
For Roxann Elkhorn, the shifts all blur together. There are the customers she likes, the ones she doesn’t, the tourists she’ll never see again in her life, and a few locals who stop by sporadically when they just don’t feel like cooking or spent too long at a shift or ferrying the kids to extracurricular activities. Saturday mornings, a group of old-timers—farmers and retired farmers and honorary farmers who worked on the railroad—gather together for breakfast.
The McRib is back and she isn’t sure what all the hype is; it’s honestly not all that great, but who is she to question a customer’s taste? It’s only one more button she’s got to know on the cash register, and it didn’t take her more than an hour of a lunch shift to have its location seared into her brain.
One day it will be gone, and if she has her way, she won’t be working at McDonald’s when the McRib comes back. She’s taking welding classes at WNCC and already has an application in with BNSF.
•••••
Things calm down after the lunch rush.
The railroaders work all hours, of course, and their lunch is when it is.
Some of them might even be eating McRibs for breakfast, which is a travesty when McDonald’s has an all-day breakfast menu. She doesn’t think about that too much.
The familiar faces have mostly gone, with an occasional semi-regular appearing, breaking up the monotony of the lull time, the post-lunch and pre-high school adjournment time.
As with all McDonald’s employees, she’s pushed into a second role during the downtime, cleaning and stocking, but always staying in close proximity of the front counter, ready for the next customer.
She didn’t hear the door open; there wasn’t a bell or a little chirpy alarm to indicate the arrival of a customer, but there was a clicking that sounded like high heels on tile, although the rhythm was wrong.
Roxann, if she’d thought about it at all, would have assumed that it was two women in heels, or possibly tap shoes—if she’d known what tap shoes were.
Of course, it wasn’t; this isn’t that kind of story. It was a pegasus pony, none other than Clear Skies.
•••••
Roxann put down her cleaning rag and immediately began to return to her post at the front counter, faltering as she observed a lavender pony making its way from the door to the counter. Its wings fluffed and then rested against its barrel, and for a moment its attention was focused on the giant cell-phone-looking ordering screen, the McDonald’s app for people who didn’t want the McDonald’s app. The only things that ever came from that screen were confused old people trying and failing to order, and teenagers trying to prank the kitchen by making weird custom orders.
The appearance of an employee at the register got the pony’s attention, and it altered its course, just slightly, to intercept. For a moment, it almost disappeared from view, and then a pair of hooves hooked on the edge of the counter and a head popped up, much like the periscope on a submarine.
“One McRib sandwich, please.”
“Just the sandwich?”
The pony nodded.
“That’s gonna be $3.89,” Roxann said. “Or you can get two for $6.00—$6.33 with tax.”
The pony considered that, tapping a hoof on the counter as it did the mental math. Finally, it nodded. “That’s a good deal, two please.”
“Here or to go?”
“Go.”
“Your total is $6.33.” Roxann knew that even before pushing the buttons on the cash register; plenty of people were taking advantage of two McRibs for only six dollars. After all, the McRib was back, but for a limited time only.
The pony reached back somewhere and produced a wrinkled ten dollar bill.
“Your change is $3.67.” Roxann handed over the money; the pony took the bills and dropped the change into the Ronald McDonald charity box, one coin at a time, sliding them off the counter, taking them delicately in its lips, and depositing them in the box.
There was a moment where conversation could have happened, and if Roxann were more personable, she might have tried. “What brings you to Alliance?” would have been a good conversation starter. Better than “I’ve never seen a pastel pony before in my life and I’m still trying to process if this is really happening or if I’ve breathed too much fry grease and am hallucinating this whole thing.”
She didn’t say anything, just watched as the pony’s ears shifted around, focusing on the noises of the kitchen or a truck on Route 385 using his Jake Brake.
The order finally came up, and Roxann instinctively checked in the bag to make sure it was right before handing it over the counter. “Enjoy your McRibs,” she said as the pony took the bag in its mouth and turned to walk back outside.
For her part, once the outside doors had swung shut, Roxann went back to cleaning around the coffee machine and dreaming about welding on locomotives.
The McRib was back.
Clear Skies was going to have one. She’d missed them the last time they’d come around, being all busy with changing the seasons and whatnot.
She’d come along US Route 235, as tourists often did, and just before she got to the giant white water tower, she angled to the right, having already spotted the golden arches.
She circled the restaurant once, observing the layout of the roads and the parking lot and other obstructions, ultimately deciding to come over the field as she descended, then hook in an airspeed dropping side-slip over the drive-thru island, which should land her near the main entrance with low enough speed to react if somebody walked out of the main entrance unexpectedly.
Her landing plan went off without a hitch, although she came close to a lifted Dodge Ram moseying up to the order speaker. The driver of said truck only got a brief glimpse of her shadow as she crossed over, and he didn’t look left even though he could have easily done so.
The front doors were frustrating; they had a sign that said Pull and a handle which wasn’t hoof-friendly at all, but she figured it out, and once it was cracked just a bit, she could get another leg in the gap and slide it open like that.
It took her a moment in the little vestibule to figure out where to go next. Luckily, Hayburgers had a similar inside layout.
Roxann was the first human she’d ever seen up close, and she tried to look beyond the small eyes and beak-like nose and her bleach-y smell. Clear Skies knew full well that she wasn’t the cook, she was just the interface, the intermediate step between her and a McRib.
She’d expected to just ask for a McRib and get one; she had already figured out that she could exchange the paper bill that said $5 for one, and on her way to the counter, she’d also spotted a convenient little bank for the extra coins she was sure to receive and didn’t want.
“That’s gonna be $3.89,” Roxann said. “Or you can get two for $6.00—$6.33 with tax.”
Clear Skies considered that. Two was better than one, and that sounded like a better deal, although figuring out how decimal currency worked gave her headaches. Almost as bad as when she was in school studying historical pegasus mathematics and had to figure out base four . . . those were primitive times indeed.
Finally, she nodded. “That’s a good deal, two please.”
“Here or to go?”
That was something she’d already decided. While in part, the full experience would include dining in, would include receiving her sandwich boxes on a slippery brown plastic tray, food tasted better when eaten on a cloud. That was an actual fact, and none of her ground-bound friends could convince her otherwise. Chairs and benches and stools and cushions always had uncomfortable pressure points, while clouds didn’t.
Plus, as a bonus, ants couldn't get to her food on a cloud.
“Go.”
“Your total is $6.33.”
She reached back into her purse and lipped out a ten—ten was twice as big as five, so should easily cover two McRibs.
And it did. “Your change is $3.67.” Roxann handed her three bills and a pile of useless base metal discs, which she put one at a time into the repository.
She thought about making smalltalk, maybe asking if Roxann had learned the secret of preparing the McRib, or what life was like in a small-town franchised diner, or if she felt shackled to the earth when she really wanted to be skybound, but instead she just waited patiently for her sandwiches to arrive.
They came in an unbleached brown bag, with the top already folded over in the illusion that that would hold in heat. Roxann forgot to tell her that the napkins were in the bottom, but that was okay; she’d seen them get put in so she knew they were there.
“Enjoy your McRibs,” Roxann said as Cloudy Skies gripped the bag in her teeth. It would have been polite to reply, but she didn’t. The scent of the mythical McRib was in her nose and she wanted nothing more than to eat them in peace; in fact, she was already considering if it would be appropriate to just land on the roof and nom one down, or maybe land in a tree. There were a couple of trees around the parking lot, and they were kind of short and stunted but ants probably rarely scuttled to the upper branches.
In the end, though, she settled on her original intention, flying up as soon as she’d cleared the overhang of the McRoof. Features on the ground shrank and blurred, until the omnipresent cars were . . . well, they were about ant-sized.
She knocked down a little nest in the cloud—comfort came first—and then unfolded the top of the bag and admired the bounty within.
Her hooves weren’t all that great at reaching down into a paper sack and it was undignified to stuff her muzzle in and snack out of it like it was a feedbag, so she tore the top off the bag until she had enough room to pull the first sandwich box out. A little bit of barbecue sauce had spilled around the edge, giving her the first tantalizing taste of the mythical McRib.
She could wait no longer; she folded the lid back and briefly examined the sandwich in all its glory, the hoagie bun with little seeds across the top for texture, the glistening sheen of sauce, pickles and onions, the fake rib-shape of the processed meat, even a vague hint of rosemary.
It was glorious, a sandwich fit for a Princess, a blending of succulent flavors that no pony food could quite match.
Down on the surface, a BNSF freight hauling coal slowly creeps across the landscape, bound for Alliance and perhaps the crew is thinking of taking the short run to McDonalds after they tie down their train for the night, or perhaps they are not. Whatever the case, they won’t be served by Roxann; she got off-shift just before the dinner rush, and is currently on her way to Scottsbluff and her welding class.
Far above, unseen by either, nested in a cumulus cloud, Clear Skies wipes the last of the sauce off her muzzle. A few stray onions are in one of the sandwich boxes—she doesn’t particularly like onions.
Two sandwiches were just the right amount. Her belly’s full, and she’s perfectly contented in her temporary cloud-nest, slowly drifting over Nebraska.
The McRib is back.
But only for a limited time.
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First.
McRibs taste like shit. Good thing this story is better than a McRib.
(So is it Roxanne? or Roxann? Make up your mind, Admiral!)
9890406
You win a McRib sandwich!*
*For a limited time, participating locations only, offer not valid in Alaska or Hawaii.
My biggest question is: why a pony? I know they're not strictly herbivores, but they are largely vegetarian. Doesn't seem to me like a race that would go out of their way to eat a sandwich with meat as the main product, limited time or not? Why not, say, a griffon? They are normally half birds of prey and half feline, both of which are mainly carnivorous.
1. I didn't know the McRib was back
2. I feel as though someone in that McDonald's would have reacted to a pony there, positively or negatively.
3. As much as I'd like to deny it, Fostoria Ohio does exist and most certainly will have the McRib.
3a. Edit - They do!
I had a McRib last week and it was still as delicious as ever!
I'll be right back. I.. um... forgot something at McDonalds. Talk among yourselves while I'm gone.
McRib Locator for you
why am i so hungry now
is this the power of compelling narratives or just the power of mcribs
9890428
Corrections made; thank you!
The McRib is disgusting, but this story was entertaining.
A little something extra in that order.
I dont understand the appeal of McDonalds or this McRib thing.
But its a bit of a moot point for me, I cant eat the things.
This had an interesting cadence to it.
For those of us in New England, Cumberland Farms (convenience store chain) has a 'rib-b-q sandwich'. The differences from a McRib: different bread, different sauce, no onions, no pickles, they reheat it in a 'speedy oven'. And, if they don't have any visible with the other sandwiches in the display, ask at the counter. Where you have to ask anyway if you want it heated up. (trust me, you don't want to try doing it in a home microwave. You'll end up with wet rubber bread and/or hard rubber meat)
Extra square bracket.
This was a story, for sure. Fun fact: My brain kind of filled in an e on the end of Roxann until two thirds of the way through the story.
9890414 Perhaps the answer is that he doesn't like writing griffons. Which I'm pretty sure he doesn't.
Alternatively, it could be that he wants to rustle my jimmies (in particular) with yet another carnivorous pegasus story.
A confusing, entirely believable story about a vile sandwich and the pony that wants them. Slightly confused but amused/10
Damn you.
9890479
I suspect, though I can't prove it, that most (if not all) of his pony-on-Earth stories are actually distant sequels of a sort to his Pony Planet story. And since the ponies of Equestria are the primary point of contact in that story for the human characters, it's not a stretch to think that they'd be the primary users of a functional passage between the two.
I loved the way you told this from both perspectives. It's interesting to know how ponies view and think of us!
Nice story, Biscuit!
Man, is Ohio even real?
LOL @ McRoof
Also, looks like the Roxann/e thing hasn't been ironed out yet.
Well, I must admit that I rarely eat Maccas food (well, alleged food) and I am pretty sure over here they've never sold a McRib sandwich... so I guess that makes two pretty good reasons I cannot judge Clear Skies dietary choices.
(Hmmm... Georg's Rib Finder seems to agree that there are none over here)
Heh, I always like coming across a place with a name that makes me go "Huh... where the heck did that come from?"... places like Poowong, Chinkapook, Wonglepong, Bleak House or Yorky's Knob... I've been through all of these and many more over the years. (actually I must admit, Bleak House is a lost town near where I grew up and there is nothing left of it except a cemetery).
This is utterly unrealistic. No one in the service industry has ever received a ten dollar bill and then failed to ask, completely unnecessarily, "Out of ten?"
I'm thinking that the McRib is back.
Then again, this story is so clearly unbelievable it could just be lying about that too. I mean, a place with a still open K-Mart!?
More proof that all ponies are reality warpers, it's just some learn to do it better. Seriously, do they all have personal subspace pockets they keep this stuff in?
And yeah, I can buy a fast food worker near the end of a shift is just so burnt out, dead, and out of fucks to give that not even a pastel colored equine walking in and wanting to devour the flesh of other creatures gets a reaction beyond "You want fries with that?" Though it's always hard to tell in these things from you just what the status between Earth and Equestria is and how common ponies are at any given point.
9890414
If the latter was the case, it was certainly a better trip than that time the Hamburglar tried to convince her to burn the place to the ground. Though she made sure she was well away from the cartons of oil as she took the pony's order.
Nice touch with ponies being uncomfortable with base ten. No reason why they'd use it, after all. Thank you for a strange but wholesome story of two ships passing in the night atop a sea of mass-produced barbeque sauce.
I’m heading home to enjoy my Mc rib sandwich right now.I don’t know why everyone hates on it. It’s such a great sandwich I don’t particularly like the onions or pickles either I usually get it plain it’s sitting right here in the brown unbleached bag next to me. I can relate to Clear Skies.
[Krusty the Clown]: We've had to discontinue the Ribwich. The animal we made 'em from is now extinct.
[Crowd]: (Homer) The pig...? (Otto) The cow...?
[Krusty]: You're waaaay off. Think smaller. Think more legs.
(And for those who will probably wonder/ask... The Simpsons; season 14, episode 12, "I'm Spelling as Fast as I Can")
Good story, bad burger.
If only the sauce were sweeter...
You know, I have to ask. Did you write this solely because of your love of McRibs or because you saw the art you used for the cover and felt inspired to write something based off it? I’m banking on you feeling inspired as well as wanting to utilize your knowledge of working at McDs once upon a time
And then Clear Skies dropped rainbows.
sees story title
Story about McDonalds food? Pass.
"...by Admiral Biscuit"
...
...
cautious click...
9890414
This assumes that there's actually meat in the McRib.
Hmmm... An interesting idea here revolving around the McRib. I honestly didn't expect it to turn out the way it did.
9890861
9890406
Of course they do; there’s a reason they were dropped from the menu in the first place. Make them exclusive, though, and people’ll line up to buy them, because people are dumb. <looks over at SDCC Derpy Action figure bought from a scalper on eBay for four times the list price>
It’s supposed to be without the ‘e’, ‘cause that’s what my White Pages research indicated, but I couldn’t help putting it in. I think I’ve found all the extra es and removed them, but I’ll look again.
9890414
Why not a pony?
Oh, but you see, give ponies a limited time offer, and they just line up. Herd mentality in action, don’t you know.
derpicdn.net/img/view/2018/10/25/1865388.jpeg
I’ll admit, I did give consideration to having it be Silverstream, but I thought it was better if it was a pony, since we all know that ponies don’t normally
wear clotheseat meat.9890416
1. It is
2. Maybe not after the lunch rush.
3. Yes, it does, and I’ve been there, probably.
3a. Alliance, NE doesn’t, AFAIK.
9890417
Which, let’s face it, can be a stamp of approval or disapproval.
9890419
Just asking, for no reason in particular, does Manhattan, KS have McDonalds?
9890433
I’d like to think it’s the power of compelling narrative about an adorable pony.
derpicdn.net/img/view/2015/4/25/882704.png
9890438
I concur on both parts.
9890447
That stray bracket can be blamed on two different text editors and a sleepy Biscuit.
McDonald’s in general, it’s fast food at a cheap price. The McRib, I assume it’s because you can’t get them all the time, so when you can, you want one. Same as any other limited edition, really.
Thank you! I was going for something a bit unconventional.
9890454
Speedways have something similar, I believe: some sort of rib-like sandwich in their hot box thingy by the cash register. Used to be it was just truck stop egg salad sandwiches you couldn’t trust; now they’ve gone and broadened their selection.
i.ytimg.com/vi/co3A61kAGr8/maxresdefault.jpg
I blame my editor.
<looks in mirror>
Dammit
Thanks!
Funner fact, that wasn’t just your brain. A lot of those Roxanns did have an e on them until I fixed it early this morning, ‘cause my traitorous fingers went and put them in.
9890479
Gilda specifically; OC griffons I can do okay. But I do tend to stick to ponies and humans for the most part.
That wasn’t my intent, honest. Wasn’t even sure what pony it would be in the story until I found the coverart I used.
9890482
Vile Sandwiches and the Ponies Who Want Them . . . sounds like a legit title to me.
I can live with that. Thanks!
9890569
derpicdn.net/img/view/2018/12/11/1905200.png
9890583
,,,
You’ll never take me alive, copper!
derpicdn.net/img/view/2012/6/24/18273.gif
9890589
I legit wasn’t going to, but it just felt lacking without the pony point of view.
As weird hairless, hornless minotaurs, duh.
Thanks!
9890711
All is cold and dark . . . are we dead, or is this Ohio?