This dispatch is being filed from an eating establishment in a far corner of the universe. Its location is marked by a curious, curved glowing yellow object supported by a tall, thin, possibly metallic, cylinder rising high above the desert. The local inhabitants refer to this object as "Golden Arches". This marker, and the adjacent building, appear to have been constructed by some intelligent life form ... but heaven knows there's none working there now. In order to procure food here, I discovered that one must endure a strange ritual. It's probably very ancient, though the priestess (also known as "counter person") seemed quite young. The ritual went something like this: Me: I'd like a Number Six breakfast meal. Priestess (aka "Counter Person"): What size? Me: Small. CP: Sorry, we don't have small. Me: ... W-what do you have? CP: We have medium and large. Me: I want the smaller one. CP: So you want the medium? Me: I want the smallest one you got. CP: Medium it is. As if in demonstration of the supernatural nature of this encounter, the bacon-egg-cheese McGriddle I ordered had somehow been transmogrified into a sausage McGriddle by the time the priestess delivered it to me.