She was a loving late-night aide to us all, mixing sausage biscuits with french fries when we didn't know what to do with ourselves. Even amidst recent controversies, including (but not limited to) allegations that your food looks the same after 6 years of incubation, that it won't burn properly, and that it contains processed horse meat, we stood by your side-as you stood by ours in our most drunken times of need.
From 4 a.m. gang fights to bros who over-bro'ed, the Wrigleyville McDonald's was a nurturer to us all-the tired, the poor, the too drunk to function. She gave cab drivers a reason to still exist in a world full of Ubers and Lyfts. She gave girls named Tabatha a place to take off the heels that had been hurting all night. She gave Boystown travelers a safe haven to blast Rihanna from their phones while simultaneously trying to scream an order. Every sobering thought begins with attempting to read a sign that says, "The milkshake machine is broken."
You will be deeply missed.
She is survived by the late-night Taco Bell across the street, the Rock 'n Roll McDonald's in River North, and a Cubs pendant covered in vomit somewhere in the general vicinity. Pour out some $4 vodka mixed with red Fruitopia in remembrance of our dear friend, the Wrigleyville McDonald's.
"Party Rock Anthem" is playing in heaven tonight. And probably 24/7 for the rest of eternity.
Written by Martin Morrow. This post originally appeared on secondcity.com
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