Charles Darwin Orders Lunch at McDonalds, Somewhere in Nebraska
By Margaret Corrigan Wooll

July 21, 2009 -- We continue our voyage of inquiry and discovery aboard the trusty HMS Beagle (although some crew members have of late adopted a distressing practice of referring to it as "the HMS Greyhound," and Captain has disappeared, replaced by a surly chap intent upon some “schedule” which seems to have little to do with our commission). We have been for five days now upon a westerly route described upon the maps as I-70, and the exotic flora and fauna have given way to a certain sameness. What a strange yet oddly unvaried land this is! Every hour rise fresh before my eyes the same outcroppings, signposts and boxes, around which gather small family units. Although there are superficial differences, their movements and patterns of acquisition are markedly similar (Note to CD: consider influence of environmental tedium on behavioral congruence). I hesitate even set this to journal, but dare I say the voyage has of late become, monotonous?

Just before midday we disembarked on a lesser hamlet seemingly little touched by human progress. Notebook and pen at hand, I ensconced myself for a time in the narrow-leafed vegetation edging a gravelly wash. No sooner had I begun recording my observations then a bright plumed adolescent female commenced squawking and flapping about, evidently disturbed to have tread so close upon me in my near camouflage. The frantic screeching, sounding something like "perv-in-the-weeds-help-perv-in-the-weeds," seemed to contain echoes of the distress calls I had remarked in females of similar species for the past several weeks. The creature seemed unable to settle, and, my hiding place discovered, I reluctantly abandoned it to seek another point of observation and respite. No sooner had I settled among a spill of metallic vessels then a flock of impertinent young scrabblers began kicking stones about my feet. I immediately netted a runty one for dissection and further classification, but a mature maternal adult appeared and became quite distracted, and the worrisome Dr. Nettlethorpe, who accompanies me everywhere, pressed me to release it. (I recognize that I am but a youth among the learned on this voyage, but I am beginning to resent the officious meddlings of some members of this expedition).

Led (rather more hastily than seemed wise) by the esteemed Dr. Nettlethorpe (who it must be said is not a naturalist but some sort of cartographer), we descended into an establishment whose primary function appeared to be preparation and consumption of meats and other sustenance. Our sudden appearance startled the creatures, scattered as they were about the sculpted plastene surface and intent upon their feeding. (Note to CD: acquire specimen for field flay to ascertain whether metallic protrusions continue throughout musculoskeletal structure—possible adaptation to magnetism in surrounding bedrock?)

"WelcometoMcDonaldsMayITakeYourOrder," a scrawny and intensely red-spotted young male with a profusion of chin hairs croaked as I settled into a crouch to get my bearings. One lazy eye blinked and the long neck extended up and down in what appeared to be an involuntary movement (perhaps useful for breathing air above an aqueous surface? Note to CD: check feet for webbing or other signs of semi-aquatic habitat; system of shallow, turgid pools observed from the Beagle earlier this morning.) The male lowered his head back down between his shoulder blades, and it was at this moment that I made a rather startling discovery. Three others among the low benches had similarly long necks and the same lackadaisical eye movement! An astonishing piece of local differentiation when for the past several days we have observed near homogeneity.

"Nettlethorpe," I whispered. "The eye, see the eye!"

"Stop pointing!" he hissed, slapping at my hand rather unnecessarily.

"But, the eye is unique, yet consistent," I insisted. “Could this be an entirely isolated subspecies?” (Note to CD: possible that members of this subspecies have not ventured out of small habitat or come into contact with others of the species?)

"For God’s sake stop pointing and order some goddamn lunch!" (Nettlethorpe has proven to be disturbingly free with his disdain for those God-fearing among us and exhibits a sacrilege shocking even among so worldly an expedition.)

I gazed around the surroundings once again, noting this time a rather large and hale male of the species, set off from and unconcerned by the long-necked blinkers. He was thick through the shoulder, broad across the skull, with a ruddy complexion, blandly observing us as he chewed upon a paper-wrapped meat of some sort. I said that I thought I should like to have whatever it was that he was having as he looked to be extremely fit and most well-endowed for survival.

At this Nettlethorpe clapped me roughly upon the back and declaimed, rather cryptically, "One Fillet-o-Fish. To-go. Back on the bus, Chuck."

——

Margaret Corrigan Wooll lives in San Francisco where she spends most of her time writing unpublished fiction, occassionally branching into other unpublished forms. She is best-known as the author of the Woolligan Year in Review 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2007, 2008. Her humor has also appeared on the local public radio station, the Noe Valley Voice, and the Drexel Online Journal. When not writing for love, she writes for hire, and is the ghost behind management strategy white papers such as: "Managed Healthcare: Who’s got your back? Probably not us" and "Re-aggregating Integrated Disintermediation: Putting the 'Big' back in Big Pharma."

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