I should state that Ronald MacDonald is probably a registered trademark of the MacDonald's Restaurant Corporation of America or something.
I recently saw an advertisement for MacDonalds. In it, a young girl is talking to Ronald MacDonald. The setting is somewhere in North America, most likely, judging from the accents and scenery. The girl says she's running away to MacDonaldLand, and Ronald says, "MacDonaldland? That's where I'm from."
Suddenly, it all made sense. Why is Ronald MacDonald, the grotesquely made-up and attired being, so far from MacDonaldland, the only place where he could fit in? Obviously, he's in exile.
A few years ago in MacDonaldLand, Mayor McCheese, having grown paranoid and megalomaniacal in his years secluded in his mayoral residence, declared a state of emergency. He rationalized this act by pointing out increased felonious activities by the Hamburgler, and obliquely referring to rumors that those French-Fry Weasels (whose names I forget) were carrying some sort of disease. Mayor McCheese's brother, the police officer with a similarly hamburger-shaped head (whose name I also forget), rounded up the Hamburgler, the Hamburgler's family, business associates of the Hamburgler, the French-Fry Weasels, and any life forms in MacDonaldLand who veered too much from basic hamburger-humanoid form. These purges were justified by a new theory of eugenics, which stated that large, round, flat heads with lettuce in them are signs of a higher form of life, a sort of Hamburgerubermensch, who were divinely granted sole political power of MacDonaldLand. Obviously, Ronald MacDonald, not being a Hamburgerubermensch, did not fit it, and yet the people would not accept his execution, since he was beloved by all and besides his great-grandfather, Helmut MacDonald, founded MacDonaldLand, so instead of being killed or forced to work in the salt mines with the other victims of the purges or being ground into a paste and turned into Big Macs for sale abroad, he was exiled to the United States, due to the friendly relations the United States had always had with MacDonaldLand, a result of the tireless efforts of the US Ambassador to MacDonaldLand, Ray A. Kroc.
But then, why would Ronald MacDonald just casually try to talk the young girl out of running away to MacDonaldLand, instead of sternly warning her against the dangers there? Obviously, he harbors a great resentment against Americans. Perhaps he is angry that we did not intervene and stop the human rights abuses perpetrated by Mayor McCheese (after all, the declaration of a state of emergency did happen during the Reagan Presidency), or perhaps he's just a snob. "Stupid Americans!" he mutters to himself at night, as he sits at his formica table while drinking cheap coffee and reading the only MacDonaldLand-language newspaper printed in the U.S., "they dress like fools! Drab colors...no bright yellow smocks or oversized red shoes...and like barbarians, they do not paint their faces! When I show them the sign of the arches, they stare at me as if I'd gone mad! Were they educated with pigs?" Late at night, he hangs around the mini- playgrounds built outside of MacDonald's franchises. "It is, so little," he whispers, before taking a swig of bourbon from a bottle he thinks he's hiding in a paper bag, "but it reminds me of home."