MI
Michael Beauman II
Oct 23, 2025
I arrived at McDonald’s not for a meal, but for a performance piece on the cruelty of corporate sweepstakes to feed the family. I had 100 free food prizes - cookies, nuggets, burgers, McChickens, and drinks — and I chose to unleash them, with an agonizing tap, via the in-store self-service kiosk.
This was a test of willpower, mind versus the collective sanity of the late-shift crew.
Avoid eye contact with the cashier. Let the machine be the messenger of my financial victory and their impending doom.
The first few free cookies and drinks went through smoothly. The kiosk, in its chipper digital voice, kept asking, "Would you like to complete your order?" I hit yes. I was committing a digital act of heroism.
A young employee, a kid in high school, who was sweeping, noticed my unblinking focus. He paused, leaned on his broom, and watched the small mountain of receipt paper curling from the printer. His initial expression was curiosity, which quickly curdled into existential dread.
The manager, a woman whose name tag could not be read, but whose soul read "retirement," came over to investigate. She watched me redeem three consecutive McChickens. She didn't speak. She just stood there, arms crossed, the flickering screen illuminating her face with the cold, hard light of betrayal. Her stare was not anger; it was the chilling realization that my petty act was the new low-point of her career. She was trapped. The kiosk had all the power, and the kiosk was my puppet.
I had a small queue forming behind me—a single, impatient father and his hungry child. They watched me meticulously select "4-piece Chicken McNuggets" for the 18th time. I could feel their resentment, but I couldn't stop. I was a broken consumer loop. I was fueled only by the sunk cost of my *time* and the 100 digital codes crumpled in my hand.
The final free small Coke redemption went through. I hit "Pay." Total due: $0.00. I took my single, final receipt, which was now long enough to qualify as a small curtain, or half a CVS receipt. I collected my haul—a chaotic, unboxed feast of 100 items—from the terrified staff.
I didn't win a car. I won a mountain of saturated fat and the satisfaction of knowing I had successfully crashed their entire digital ordering flow, all thanks to Monopoly. The staff didn't just look at me with disdain; they looked at me as the harbinger of the end times, the reason machines would eventually rise up and replace us all.
I achieved true retail villainy. I am now leaving to use 100 Taco Bell rewards one-by-one. Wish me luck.