Monday, 14 October 2019

Inspired by Alfian Sa'at, I wrote a poem called McDonald's, You Did Not Have My Pyjamas



Dear McDonald’s,

Look what you made me do.

Last Monday at exactly 6pm, I opened your app to order the $24.90 McDelivery Night In bundle that included loungewear (which is just a McFancy way of saying “pyjamas”).

But all I got was this message: “The service is temporarily unavailable. Please try again later.”

So I tried again a few seconds later and got the same message. So I tried again. And again. And again for the next few hours.

I had flashbacks to April when I was traumatised trying to book the Avengers: Endgame advance tickets online.

At 6.55pm, you posted on your Facebook page:
“Thank you for your overwhelming response. We’re experiencing high traffic to our McDelivery website and app at the moment.

“Please bear with us as we work to get it back up as soon as possible.”
That was no help.



After about three hours of clicking repeatedly, I was finally able to order the set on the website, but only the women’s jammies were available. The men’s set was sold out.

And because I didn’t want to go through all that for nothing, I ordered the women’s. I should mention here that I am a man, not to be overly binary about it. So I didn’t get what I wanted.



Inspired by award-winning writer Alfian Sa’at’s poem, Singapore, You Are Not My Country, I decided to write you a poem to let you know how I feel:

McDonald’s, you did not have my pyjamas
McDonald’s, you did not have my pyjamas at all
You are surprising McDonald’s, promo-starved McDonald’s, sold-out McDonald’s of two-piece loungewear in Big Mac-and-fries print.
You apologise, but without compensation, without placating, without Mayor McCheese,
but through your Facebook page,
through your 40 Days of Thank You 1-for-1 deals
and that white chocolate strawberry cream pie I swear
is working voodoo on my body fat percentage.

McDonald’s, what is this “high traffic” on your website?
There are so many pyjamas fans,
You should’ve anticipated the demand.
McDonald’s, I assert, you did not have my pyjamas at all.
Do not thank us for “our kind understanding”,
I am not afraid of your mascot
although the clown is scarier than It and Joker.
And how can you call yourself a restaurant,
you terrible hallucination of queues for Hello Kitty dolls,
My Melody food holders and McGriddles hoodies?

That was as far as I got.

Writing poetry was harder than I thought, even when I didn’t have to rhyme. Props to all poets.

I give the Ministry of Education permission to reprint my poem in future literature textbooks and welcome the Education Minister to quote it in Parliament when your failure to have my pyjamas is brought up for debate.



Yes, I know you started taking pre-orders for the “loungewear” on Friday, but the estimated delivery is the end of next month.

By then, I (and the rest of Singapore) would’ve moved on to the next craze, like KFC underwear or who knows what. Yes, I do want my crotch to smell like fried chicken.

What’s the point of me posting pictures of me in McDonald’s pyjamas on Instagram in a month’s time when no one cares about McDonald’s pyjamas any more?

And I’m not going to pay double for the men’s jammies to some opportunistic reseller on Carouhell.

So what did I do?

I posted pictures of me in the women’s pyjamas.

I was that desperate. Gotta do it for the Gram.

I got 16 likes.


Even though the clothes are supposed to be “free size”, the top is a bit snug around my manly shoulders. The shorts, however, are so small that if I tried them on, I would’ve castrated myself. That’s because, if you need reminding, I am not a woman. Hear me rant.

Look what you made me do, McDonald’s.

You turned me into a cross-dresser for 16 lousy Insta likes.

- Published in The New Paper, 14 October 2019





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