If I'm going to eat fast food, I'm going to McDonald's. I don't

Host: The neon lights of downtown buzzed like a swarm of tired bees, reflecting off puddles from a recent rain. The streets were alive with the smell of fried food, car exhaust, and the music of late-night traffic. Inside a McDonald’s, the fluorescent glow flattened everything — the faces, the food, even the dreams. But it was warm, and real, and it smelled like salt, oil, and honesty.
Jack sat in a corner booth, a Big Mac half unwrapped, steam rising from the fries between them. Jeeny arrived with a tray, setting down two sodas, her eyes soft but mischievous under the yellow light.

Jeeny: “Chrissy Teigen once said, ‘If I'm going to eat fast food, I'm going to McDonald's. I don't need to pretend.’”

Jack: “Finally, a philosopher I can agree with. Honesty, grease, and no pretense. That’s more wisdom than most politicians have ever spoken.”

Host: The hum of the deep fryer filled the air, a kind of mechanical lullaby. The workers behind the counter moved with ritual precision, wrapping, pouring, ringing up orders. Outside, the rain had stopped, and a few drunk students laughed their way past the window.

Jeeny: “It’s not just about food, Jack. It’s about authenticity. Teigen wasn’t just saying she likes burgers — she was saying she doesn’t like to pretend. In a world that thrives on appearances, that’s radical.”

Jack: “Or lazy. Maybe she just didn’t want to dress up her choices with moral flavor. Maybe not everything has to be symbolic, Jeeny. Sometimes a burger is just a burger.”

Jeeny: “You never think anything means more than it looks. That’s your problem. Even something as simple as choosing McDonald’s — it’s a statement. She’s saying she’d rather be honest about her indulgence than pretend it’s organic virtue.”

Jack: “Or maybe she just knows what she likes. Not everything has to be a rebellion. Sometimes people just want fries, not philosophy.”

Host: Jack took a bite, the crunch of the lettuce mixing with the muffled pop music in the background. Jeeny watched him with a half-smile, her hands wrapped around her cup, fingers warming against the plastic.

Jeeny: “But don’t you see, Jack? That’s exactly what makes it profound. We live in a world obsessed with pretending — pretending to be healthy, pretending to be perfect, pretending to care. Teigen’s saying, ‘I’m not pretending.’ That’s rare honesty.”

Jack: “So now fast food is a metaphor for existential authenticity? What’s next — the drive-thru as a symbol of freedom?”

Jeeny: “Maybe! Think about it. McDonald’s is the great equalizer — rich or poor, you stand in the same line. You don’t need a reservation, just a craving. It’s not about the food — it’s about being real in a culture that’s always trying to be something else.”

Jack: “Being real by eating processed meat. How poetic.”

Jeeny: “You mock it, but think about how often people fake their lives — fake happiness, fake morality, fake taste. Teigen’s comment is almost defiant. She’s saying, ‘I’m not going to wrap my guilt in kale.’”

Host: The radio behind the counter played an old Whitney Houston song, soft, wistful, almost tender beneath the buzzing lights. Jack laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that masked a hint of truth he didn’t want to admit.

Jack: “Alright, fine. Maybe there’s something to it. Maybe the world is addicted to pretending. But don’t act like she’s Socrates with a milkshake. It’s just a throwaway line.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes truth hides in the throwaway lines. That’s what makes it powerful. You know what I think? People trust simplicity because it’s rare. We complicate everything to hide who we really are.”

Jack: “So you’re saying honesty is fast food, and lies are fine dining?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fine dining is about presentation. Fast food is about need. When you’re starving, you don’t care about appearances — you just want to eat. And maybe life’s like that too. People want something that feeds them, not something that impresses them.”

Host: A child in a red jacket laughed near the door, biting into a burger almost too big for his hands. His father watched, smiling, tired, but content. The scene was ordinary, yet beautiful — the kind of moment that never makes it to Instagram, but lives longer in memory.

Jack: “You sound like a preacher at a fry station.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a cynic who’s forgotten what satisfaction feels like.”

Jack: “I just don’t think authenticity needs a brand name. You can be honest without corporate logos.”

Jeeny: “But honesty doesn’t need to be pure to be true. Maybe that’s what’s so human about it. It’s messy. It’s imperfect. McDonald’s is exactly that — imperfect but honest about being imperfect. No false promises.”

Jack: “Except the pictures on the menu.”

Jeeny: “Even illusions have to eat, Jack.”

Host: Her smile was playful, but her eyes were serious — like someone who’d tasted both glamour and truth, and knew which one filled her more. Jack leaned back, watching her as she took a bite of her burger, chewing slowly, thoughtfully, as if absorbing something ancient in its simplicity.

Jack: “So you think authenticity means lowering the bar?”

Jeeny: “No. It means removing the mask. You can be high-minded or humble — what matters is that it’s real. Pretension is the real junk food.”

Host: The rain started again, softly drumming against the window, the streetlights glimmering on the wet asphalt. Inside, the hum of conversation continued, the rhythm of plastic cups, wrappers, and laughter forming a kind of urban symphony.

Jack: “So maybe we’ve been overcomplicating everything. Maybe the search for meaning is just a craving for something we can taste and trust.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Honesty doesn’t always look deep — sometimes it just looks real. That’s what Teigen meant. No pretending. No posturing. Just a choice that doesn’t lie.”

Jack: “You know, for once, I think you might be right.”

Jeeny: “You say that every time you start to agree with me.”

Jack: “Only because you make everything sound noble — even sodium.”

Host: They both laughed, the kind of laughter that cuts through fatigue, warms the air, and softens the edges of the world. The café filled with the sound of life at its most unfiltered — teenagers, workers, families, lonely souls with paper bags and plastic dreams.

The camera would have pulled back then — two figures in a booth, faces lit by neon, grease-stained napkins scattered like confessions. The rain continued, the streetlights blurred, and the world, for a brief moment, stopped pretending.

Host: And in that ordinary light, among fries and truth, McDonald’s became what philosophy rarely is — simple, sincere, and human.