I don’t get this: Who goes to McDonald’s if you’re counting calories? OK, maybe you’re part of a group and your suggestion to eat at the Soy Shanty fell flat, and you forgot to bring along a baggie of bone meal and alfalfa. So you go salad. Chicken Sandwich and save the bun for an undiscriminating hobo. Diet soda. Small fries (230 calories).
But how does knowing that a McCheesyFlabBurger has 5,700 calories and enough fat to enter the quarterfinals at the Osaka Grand Sumo Tournament in any way going to help you, except possibly in the emergency room when the technician’s asking why there’s bacon grease on your chest?
And are you really going to work those calories off? Is there a jogging track that extends from your living room to Somalia so the pirates can chase you back?
If I’m going to indulge in the unspeakable glories of dead fried animals, please spare me the burden of having to do math.