In this edition of The F-List, we asked three of our writers to assess the sexual desirability of fast food icons, mascots, and spokesanimals. What? Like you’ve never dreamed of a threesome with Ronald McDonald and Dave Thomas? You’re going to sit there and judge us?
Oh, lighten up and enjoy it.
I grew up in Alabama and therefore I have a real soft spot for 1) fried chicken and 2) smooth, genteel hillbillies in seersucker. I could see this Silver Fox vibe working real well for me. Loosen that string tie and show me what you’re working with, Mister.
I’ve not yet had the chance to get down with royalty, so the King gets my number 2 spot. And I mean, as Kings go, I have to say he seems pretty unassuming. Doesn’t seem to do a lot of talking, which is a definite plus—too much yakking takes me right out of it, you know? I could see the possibility of a little role playing action too, because he has by far the best costume. (King: bring chicken fries. Or better yet—let’s get after it at your place, which I assume is a palace with unfettered access to all menu items. Hopefully that includes a working shake machine.)
Having not yet met him… it’s a little hard to decide if a peg leg would be an asset or a detriment during sex. Although, given that LJS is a salty, sexually active sailor one has to assume that he’s perfected some modifications for various positions over the years. Probably once you’re into it you forget it’s even there. Are there concerns about splinters? Does he spank with it? Would that be considered just… kicking you? I have questions, to be sure, but I’m pretty open, and I do know my way around a boat.
We don’t have these where I live, so I’m not really as familiar with Jack Box as I assume the West Coast ladies are (wink, wink). So for me, he has a definite air of mystery and I’m just gonna go ahead and lean into it. Also the word “box” is literally part of his identity. That has to count for something.
I’ve heard tell that as lovers, Italian men are in a class all their own. I would give Little Caesar the chance to prove the stereotype true. He loves pizza, so we already have that in common. He is a bit on the short side, but I don’t get too hung up on that sort of stuff. I’m also frankly just curious what the undergarment situation is there with his toga and if he’s as freewheeling as I suspect… I’m digging it! I mean, the mainstay of his whole situation is something called HOT AND READY, how can you go wrong there? Plus, he just seems to have boundless enthusiasm. You want that in a lover, don’t you? I think so.
There’s like three of them, right?
All things being equal… I’m OK with a purse dog.
For some reason, I always imagine pandas to be female? So I guess it’s fitting that my first same-sex experience would be my first inter-species experience?
It’s getting weird, isn’t it?
Oof. There’s a creepy clown/pedophile vibe that’s really hard to get past with Ronald. I’m not saying he IS, I’m just saying he SEEMS like he is. On the other hand, I really like his good works with his Ronald McDonald House and his fries are by far the best. I think at best we could have kind of a Burger Hag friendship situation, where I like give him advice about makeup and wardrobe and we get sloppy on tartinis and house some hot apple pies together every now and again. It’s not you, Ronald. It’s me. (But it’s kinda you.)
I’ve been pissed at Wendy ever since the mid-90s. She and her creepy homophobic father pulled their advertising during Ellen DeGeneres’s old sitcom Ellen, because Ellen had the audacity to (gasp!) come out as a gay woman on her own show. NOT a sex positive move. As a fellow redhead, you know… I felt a kinship there all my life and it was a real blow, personally and dietarily. Sorry, Wendy. There are some things you just can’t forgive.
Look, I’m not into animal fucking, but as far as I know, the Panda Express Panda is fictitious. This isn’t me declaring I’d like to fuck the Georgia bulldog and, 5 minutes later, in an act of Southern hospitality, the University of Georgia alumni association puts the current Uga the dog in front of me with a Señor Wences mouth drawn on his butthole for good measure. It cannot happen.
Pandas are, however, fancy as all fuck, and I have recently committed to fancying up my life, starting with this list of ranking fast food logos based on how much I want to fuck them. And if you fuck something, you gain its fanciness, correct? It’s like sexual Highlander. So, yeah; bring on the bear.
A‘caesar is pretty damn fancy. Caesar’s Palace. Caesar salad. Cesar Milan. All upper-crust. Plus, this guy is 4 feet tall with a giant mouth and probably moves his bowels once a week due to his dairy intake, so that ass is always in PLAY! (This is the first time I’ve ever written something and afterward felt bad for all the taxpayer money that went into my 13 years of public schooling. Maybe the conservatives are right; cut all school funding and let the Evangelicals teach us.)
A king is a definitive step down from a caesar, but the Burger King’s height, coif, and facial hair all make for fantastic consolation prizes. Plus, his is the first establishment on this list to provide soft serve ice cream, and is there any greater aphrodisiac than watching soft serve ice cream consumed? Bonus points if they can deep throat it, including the cone and the napkin around it.
A colonel, while not a ruler, is nothing to sneeze at. Also in the plus column? Colonel Sanders most definitely owns land (and possibly people). Life as Mrs. Sanders sounds decent. There’s no way the Colonel can get it up after a lifetime of deep fried chicken, so it would be no give and all take in the bedroom. Which is everyone’s ultimate goal, right?
Plus: He’s probably got a boat, possibly a crew. Kind eyes. His parrot could be used to talk dirty during the act. Minus: Pirate sex sounds incredibly dangerous. Tears from the hooks. Splinters from the wooden limbs. Not to mention requests to do god knows what to those patched ocular cavities.
Ronald doesn’t have much going for him sexually. There might be height, but that’s really it. He’s got a haircut like he’s in the Four Seasons circa 1972 and wears makeup like a televangelist’s wife. Still, it has to be fun to blow a load on that and turn his face into a Monet, right? IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED, GUYS? SHIT JUST GOT REAL DARK REAL FAST!
Wendy is like 8 years old. Nice try, Chris Hanson. Didn’t get me then, not getting me now.
This just looks painful all over. Between the nose and the hat, you are gonna have an asshole like a Fight Club-era Brad Pitt thrown over the fence of San Quentin State Prison.
So now we’re down to the plebeian AND non-human. I suppose a purebred dog still gets the nod over cows. Even though he’s too small to take a dicking. I guess he’s still good for the bored Mexican housewife’s favorite trick, Pedro Peanut Butter.
Livestock. Doesn’t get any lower than this. One is not uplifted by mounting a cow. No one ever slept themselves to the top of a dairy farm. Sure, their begging for their lives in various bits of Chick-fil-A advertising is hilarious, but a sense of humor only carries you so far.
If you’ve known me in any capacity over the course of my regrettable life, you know that I unashamedly LOVE Burger King. It’s realistically one of the most important things a person should know about me.
With that in mind, before we get to the fuck-part of this explanation, I feel compelled to write the following:
The Top 10 Moments of My Life Involving Burger King (In Descending Order)
I well and truly love Burger King. By the Romantic Transitive Property, that means I well and truly love The Burger King. But even if I didn’t? He’s still be the objective number one option.
If God gives you a chance to call your butthole the Home of the Whopper, you take it. Every flame broiled inch.
Long John Silver can straight up get it.
“But Zach,” you may be asking, “does this high ranking have anything to do with LJS’s eerie similarities to your real life lover, who is also a boat captain, and also named Jon?”
Put down your pitchforks. Let me tell you a story.
When I was 16, I used to watch this old TV show called Adam-12, which aired late night on 38 Family Greats, two episodes back to back, 2:00 A.M. and 2:30 A.M. Adam-12 starred a guy I thought was really handsome, Martin Milner. Adam-12 first aired in 1968, when Milner was 36 years old. I was watching the show in 1999, when Milner was 68 years old. Did I want to have sex with Milner as 36 year-old Officer Malloy? Hell yeah. But did I want to have sex with Milner as a 68 year-old man? Hell no.
The point I’m trying to make is that there’s a difference between the image and the person, and sometimes you want to fuck one but not the other.
Melinda Lou “Wendy” Morse (née Thomas) isn’t a kid on a sign to me, she’s a real 56 year-old woman living in Ohio. She even appeared in a few Wendy’s ads, recently. And dare I say it, she’s a handsome broad.
Pandas are notoriously hard to get in the mood, and I love a challenge. Can’t say I’m incredibly jazzed about the fetalised panda penis, with its unusually small and winged baculum, but I’ll deal. The clincher is that, most pandas I know have webcams, and I’m TOTALLY into that amateur/exhibitionist thing.
Jack, as far as I can tell, is an anatomically correct man in a suit with a giant mascot head, and I’ll admit that I’m SLIGHTLY intrigued by the idea. On the one hand, he has this whole will-he-murder-me-Wall-Street-in-the-cocaine-80s-Patrick-Bateman vibe going on. But, on the other hand, he has this whole will-he-murder-me-Wall-Street-in-the-cocaine-80s-Patrick-Bateman vibe going on. I do like Huey Lewis and the News…
If it were to happen, I’d be banking pretty hard on that whole “any time a mobster is nicknamed ‘Little,’ they’re actually big in some way” trope. At the very least, he has a giant mouth. Hard to go wrong, there.
I don’t want my first inter-species-sexual-experience to be an orgy, let alone one where I can’t tell which one of my cow-lovers is Freckles, Freedom, Molly, or Cat (yes, those are their names). Call me a cow-racist if you want, but all Holsteins look the same.
Over 99 billion served? I’m usually not one to slut shame, but come on. Your orifices should not operate on the same principle as Cady Heron having a Mathletics realization.
I’m 75 percent sure Colonel Sanders is either a ghost or vampire. There is no way that pasty fuck served in any army other than the Confederacy. And on the off chance he’s not? Congrats on being alive, bro, but the dude is still clearly a white supremacist and a terrible person. And NO, I don’t care how genderfluid s/he is these days. Being trans, genderqueer, non-binary, or anything else doesn’t excuse you from being a shitty person. It’s called The Caitlin Jenner Rule.
A chihuahua recently peed directly into my mouth, and that’s about as much interaction with chihuahua dicks as I can handle for this millennium.