His name was Doug, and he was 25 years old, still in college. He was, as he put it, "paid to think"; thereby implying that we, the lowly crew, were not. We were there to take his orders, do them, and "FOR FUCK SAKE PUT YOUR COCK AWAY".
I should mention that Doug was a raging homophobe, and the sight of another man's cock drove him to frothing, near-psychotic rage. In retrospect, I wonder what else it made froth on him.
Whomever had discovered this fact had long since stopped working there, but it was passed down over the years that if you could sneak your cock out and get Doug to look at it, the entire rest of the shift would be easier as it threw him completely off; he was simply too angry to do anything properly after that. For whatever reason, he never actually punished the person who did it either; he'd just scream and call us ALL fags. The more I think about this, the more I think he secretly liked it. It was a rare shift that at least one of us didn't get our cocks out; you could get it out, look down, and his gaze would follow. Pointing no longer worked, as he knew exactly what we were pointing at. Pointing at someone else didn't work either.
My friend Marvin, whom everyone called "Toot" for the obvious reason, was a master of getting his rather large, obscenely floppy cock out at a moment's notice. You couldn't even tell it happened. He'd wave his hand in a nonchalant manner, and suddenly there's the cock. It was at least 9 inches long, soft. Damndest thing I've ever seen. He said it never got any bigger, just harder. He was a shower as opposed to a grower. Either way, his monstrous dangle had a singular talent for driving Doug squarely over the edge.
One day, during a particularly hellish shift, nearly everyone in the kitchen had tried to show their cocks to Doug, but he was particularly wily that day and hadn't seen anyone's. In addition to being a complete prick that shift, he was feeling particularly self-congratulatory, commending himself OUT LOUD about being smarter than all "these perverts".
I was toasting buns that day, and called over to Toot on the meat station (fitting, I know) to look over for a second.
In my hand was a freshly toasted McRib bun.
I laid out the plan very quickly. At great personal risk, I was willing to hold the bun in my hand as Toot put his cock on it.
It was just so strange, so fucking out there, that we were positive he'd look. Toot laughed and agreed that once it died down a little, I was to ask Doug about the bun in my hand, and when he looked, Toot's cock would be on it.
As the time passed, I had another idea. I didn't call Toot over this time.
At the appointed time, Toot signaled to me that he was ready.
Grabbing a bun in hand, I looked up, yelling at Doug the moment I felt something like a good-sized puppy being lain across the bun. It hit my thumb, and I tried to ignore it as I yelled for Doug that there was something wrong with the bun.
Doug looked over, and immediately began screaming. Toot stared back at him, beaming.
At that moment, I brought my left hand across my body, revealing what I had been hiding so carefully as I shot Toot in the cock three times with deadly accuracy. Pow. Pow. Pow!
McDonald's Special Sauce is a rancid concoction that from experience MUST be one part thousand island dressing, one part pickle relish and two parts monkey cum. In the restaurants, it is dispensed in tubes that look very much like caulk tubes, which are then inserted into "guns" that look very much like, well, caulking guns. Same ratchet action, trigger, etc. These are kept, facing down, in special drawers that keep them chilled.
I had, in the course of half a second, shot three Big Mac's worth of Special Sauce directly up and down the length of Toot's massive prick, resting on a McRib bun in my hand. It was like Satan himself directing the world's most fucked-up McDonald's commercial.
Doug's screaming became a high-pitched laughter that couldn't be suppressed. Toot fell backwards, screaming over and over "it's so cold! So cold!".
As Doug bent over, grabbing himself at the knees in his laughter, Toot lurched over to a trashcan, dick still exposed, and began furiously wiping himself with paper towels, exclaiming every few seconds "Oh, God, it's greasy!" and the aforementioned "It's SO cold!". This was in full hearing and partial view of the end of a lunch rush crowd. While they couldn't see exactly what was going on, they could definitely make out a 6'5" man, hunched over a trashcan, screaming these things over and over.
They STILL ordered food.
As other employees walked by in the kitchen, everyone noted Toot furiously wiping something off of his FULLY EXPOSED HORSE-COCK and muttering to himself. The district manager himself took one look, shook his head, decided it was better NOT to ask, and walked hurriedly away.
An hour later, Toot shot me in the back with tartar sauce and said that even though he initially had wanted to kill me, he had to admit it was pretty fucking funny.