It’s an oft-quoted fact in my circle that I used to live in the Cayman Islands – the joke being that I mention it a lot, and a joke that I further reinforce by mentioning it now. You can read about when I lived in the Cayman Islands here, but as always I digress – and digression is no way to treat Al Gore’s greatest invention.
When I first arrived in the Cayman Islands, my political beliefs were slightly left of Pol Pot’s. I hated McDonald’s in particular, and thought of them as the avatar of all things corporate and bad. The Cayman Islands would prove to be a haven for me; not only was there no McDonald’s (they had Wendy’s and Burger King), but that other corporate bastard, the Coca-Cola Company, was almost non-existent. I was a bartender at the time, and people would come and ask for a rum and Pepsi; can you imagine such craziness?
One day I happened to be strolling around genuine capital city of Georgetown, Grand Cayman, where I was to discover a restaurant called MacDonald’s. Not McDonald’s, mind: MacDonald’s. I decided that, in the interests of research and fuck McDonald’s, to see what it was all about. The menu consisted of rotisserie chicken, jerk stuff (get your mind out of the gutter: it’s a spice) and all kinds of wonderful Caribbean dishes beloved by local folk.
The restaurant itself was nothing all that special, but it did start an urban myth that McDonald’s and its orthographically-challenged usurper had a lawsuit – one that the native Cayman heroes won. This was apparently the reason the Caymans remained blissfully bereft of Big Macs.
I learned many years later that this was, in fact, an urban legend; it was basically the local mafia-esque Burger King owners that had stopped Ronald from setting foot in the infamous tax haven.
My personal journey of awakening also led me away from my Antifa roots, and I now occasionally eat a McFlurry, happy in the knowledge that I am a bourgeois-twat class traitor.