We cried when McDonald's stopped deep-frying apple pies. We begged Taco Bell to bring back the Volcano Menu. We even signed petitions over KFC's potato wedges.
But maybe — just maybe — we should save our outrage for what doesn't disappear.
Because that apple pie? It's gone in six minutes. That polyester dress? It's still here in six hundred years.
Fast food breaks our hearts. Fast fashion breaks our planet.
The Sweet Truth About Disappearing Things
McDonald's old-school apple pies were molten, dangerous, divine — gone in moments, remembered forever. That's how consumption should work: joy, done, gone.
But our clothes? They're like the fried pie that never cools down. Every polyester thread is still melting, still toxic, still there. A single T-shirt can outlive every human in your family line. That's not nostalgia. That's clutter with a pulse.
The Double Decker Lesson
Taco Bell's Double Decker Taco disappeared in a flash — 79 cents, one summer, one memory. Fast fashion works the same way emotionally — cheap thrill, easy grab, instant regret. The difference? The taco's gone by lunch. The dress is haunting a landfill in Bangladesh.
Why KFC's Potato Wedges Don't Haunt the Earth
KFC's wedges were comfort in a cardboard box — hot, greasy, gone in an hour. No one's finding them floating in the ocean in 2090. But that glitter top you bought for New Year's Eve 2016? It's still out there. Half buried, half burning, fully eternal.
Pizza Hut Buffets and the Feast We Forgot
Remember those endless buffets at Pizza Hut — red booths, checkered tables, that smell of melted cheese? We learned to take only what we could eat. That's sustainability before it had a hashtag. Now our closets are the opposite of buffets — they're landfills with lighting. It's time to bring back that Pizza Hut principle: eat what you love, wear what you'll keep.
When Burger King's Cini-Minis Made Us Happy for 10 Minutes
Ten minutes of sugar, warmth, and nostalgia. Fast fashion gives you ten minutes of validation, too — then shame. We used to crave cinnamon. Now we crave compliments. Either way, both disappear — except one leaves microplastics.
Wendy's Chicken Caesar Pita — and the Freshness We Lost
That pita was ahead of its time — fresh, simple, reusable in memory. If Wendy's could make lettuce exciting, why can't we make sustainability normal? Fast food got it right for once: seasonal, portioned, done. Fast fashion can't stop supersizing.
The McPizza Theory
McDonald's killed its pizza because it took too long to cook. The irony? That's the same reason fast fashion exists — we hate waiting. But everything truly satisfying — relationships, craft, change — takes time. That's why List Vintage Fast exists: to prove that fast can still mean lasting.
The McSalad Shaker Metaphor
It was a salad you could shake in a cup. A small innovation with big meaning: mobility, reuse, joy. That's what circular fashion should feel like — light, practical, playful. Your clothes don't need to end. They need to rotate.
The Volcano Menu and the Fire We Need Back
We'd drink that Taco Bell Volcano Sauce if they brought it back — that's how passionate we were. Sustainability needs that same energy. That same I'd wait in line for this heat. Saving the planet shouldn't be beige. It should burn with purpose.
The Real Limited-Time Offer
McDonald's fries cooked in beef tallow? Gone. KFC's Twister wrap? Gone. Arby's 5-for-$5 deal? Gone. But that $8 polyester blouse from 2012? Still around. Still somewhere. Still waiting to decompose in 2525.
Fast food disappears. Fast fashion doesn't. And yet we treat fashion like fries — disposable, temporary, harmless. It's not. It's the new plastic.
The Comeback That Actually Matters
You don't need Taco Bell to bring back the Quesarito. You need the planet to bring back balance. That's why List Vintage Fast exists — not just as a marketplace, but as a memory bank. Where style gets reborn. Where good taste never expires. We're not chasing nostalgia. We're restoring it.
Reflection
We keep crying over things that disappear. Maybe it's time to cry over the things that don't. A McDonald's apple pie takes six minutes to vanish. A polyester blouse takes six hundred years. One leaves you full for a moment. The other leaves the Earth full forever.
So next time you miss the taste of something gone, remember: not everything should last forever — especially not your fast fashion. Buy slow. Buy smart. Buy vintage. That's not just style — that's survival. That's List Vintage Fast.
We humans are funny that way. We'll rally around discontinued fast food like it's a social justice issue. We'll sign petitions to bring back the McRib, mourn the loss of Taco Bell's Mexican Pizza (which did return, thanks to outcry), and wax poetic about the original McDonald's apple pies—the ones that were deep-fried, blistering hot, and somehow tasted like childhood itself.
But here's the uncomfortable irony: the things we desperately want to come back are the ones that left. The things that should leave—like the 92 million tons of textile waste the fashion industry produces every year—never do.
The Fast Food We Miss
Let's take a moment to honor the fallen. The menu items that sparked joy, then vanished without warning:
KFC Potato Wedges – Thick, golden, seasoned with that mysterious blend of herbs and spices. Replaced by "Secret Recipe Fries" in 2020. Fans were not amused.
McDonald's Original Apple Pies – Deep-fried, molten lava hot, with a crispy shell that could cut your mouth if you weren't careful. Replaced by baked pies in 1992 for "health reasons." We still haven't recovered.
Taco Bell's Mexican Pizza – A cult favorite that was discontinued in 2020, then brought back in 2022 after relentless fan demand. Proof that people power works—sometimes.
Wendy's Spicy Chicken Nuggets – Gone in 2017, back in 2019 after a viral Twitter campaign. The people spoke. Wendy's listened.
Burger King's Chicken Fries – Disappeared for years, returned briefly, then vanished again. A menu item with more comebacks than a pop star.
These items became cultural touchstones. They were part of our shared experience—quick, accessible, comforting. Their absence created a void we still talk about years later.
And yet.
The Fast Fashion That Never Leaves
While we petition for potato wedges, the fashion industry churns out 100 billion garments every year—most of which will end up in landfills within 12 months. According to the Ellen MacArthur Foundation, one garbage truck of textiles is landfilled or incinerated every second.
Let that sink in. Every. Single. Second.
Fast fashion brands release new "collections" every few weeks. Trends change faster than we can keep up. That shirt you bought last month? Already out of style. The dress you wore twice? Forgotten. The jeans that don't quite fit? Shoved to the back of the closet, destined for a donation bin that ships them overseas where they'll clog landfills in developing countries.
Unlike discontinued fast food, fast fashion doesn't disappear. It accumulates. It persists. It pollutes.
The fashion industry is responsible for 10% of global carbon emissions—more than all international flights and maritime shipping combined. It takes 7,500 liters of water to make a single pair of jeans—the equivalent of what one person drinks in seven years. And most of those jeans? Worn fewer than 10 times before being discarded.
We don't mourn the loss of fast fashion. We should mourn its presence.
The Nostalgia Paradox
Why do we care so deeply about discontinued fast food, but barely blink at the scale of fashion waste?
Part of it is visibility. When KFC changes their menu, we notice immediately. It's a tangible loss. We can taste it—or rather, we can't anymore, and that absence is sharp.
Fashion waste, on the other hand, is invisible. We don't see the landfills. We don't watch our old clothes decompose (or fail to decompose, in the case of synthetic fabrics that can take 200+ years to break down). We don't witness the polluted rivers in Bangladesh or the mountains of discarded clothing in Chile's Atacama Desert.
But it's also about convenience and culture. Fast food is designed to be fast, cheap, and satisfying. So is fast fashion. Both industries thrive on our desire for instant gratification. Both normalize disposability.
The difference? We collectively decided that some fast food is worth fighting for. We haven't yet made that decision about our clothes.
The Comeback That Actually Matters
Here's the thing: I'm not here to shame anyone for missing KFC's wedges. (I miss them too.) But imagine if we channeled that same energy—that same collective nostalgia, passion, and action—toward the fashion industry.
What if we demanded that our clothes stick around? Not in landfills, but in circulation?
What if we started selling instead of tossing? Buying secondhand instead of new? Repairing instead of replacing?
The resale market is already booming. According to ThredUp's 2023 Resale Report, the secondhand market is expected to reach $350 billion globally by 2027. That's not a trend—it's a movement.
When you sell a piece of clothing instead of throwing it away, you're doing something radical. You're saying: this item has value. It deserves another life. You're also opting out of the disposable cycle that fast fashion depends on.
You're making the comeback that actually matters.
Fast Food vs. Fast Fashion: A Tale of Two Wastes
Let's be clear: I'm not equating a discontinued menu item with environmental collapse. But the way we respond to both reveals something important about what we value and what we're willing to ignore.
We miss the things that brought us joy—even if they were small, silly, or bad for us. That's human. But we also have the power to reject the things that bring us harm, even if they're convenient.
Fast food comes and goes. Sometimes it comes back. That's okay.
Fast fashion? It needs to go. And it needs to stay gone.
So, What's the Move?
If you're reading this and thinking, "Okay, but what do I actually do?"—here's the short version:
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Sell what you're not wearing. Take 10 minutes. List a few items online. You'll be surprised how quickly they move—and how good it feels to pass them on.
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Buy secondhand first. Before clicking "add to cart" on a new item, check resale platforms. Odds are, someone's already selling exactly what you're looking for.
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Repair and care. A missing button doesn't mean a shirt is dead. A small stain doesn't mean jeans are trash. Extend the life of what you already own.
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Demand better from brands. Vote with your wallet. Support companies that prioritize sustainability, transparency, and circularity.
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Talk about it. Share what you're learning. Normalize secondhand shopping. Make resale cool again—or rather, make it cool for the first time.
The Final Word
KFC's potato wedges aren't coming back anytime soon. (Sorry.) But the 92 million tons of textile waste? That can change. The polluted rivers, the carbon emissions, the mountains of discarded clothes? Those can change too.
We just have to want it as badly as we wanted those wedges.
Because here's the truth: the planet doesn't need another McDonald's apple pie reboot. It needs us to care about what we keep—and what we let go—just as passionately as we care about what we've lost.
So the next time you're tempted to toss an old jacket or buy something you'll wear twice, pause. Ask yourself: does this deserve a second life? Can this be someone else's treasure?
The comeback we need isn't happening on a fast-food menu. It's happening in our closets. One sale, one choice, one shirt at a time.
And unlike discontinued fast food, this is a comeback that can actually last.