

McDonald’s USA, LLC, serves a variety of menu options made with quality ingredients to millions of customers every day. Ninety-five percent of McDonald’s approximately 13,500 U.S. restaurants are owned and operated by independent business owners. For more information, visit www.mcdonalds.com, and follow us on social: X, Instagram, TikTok and Facebook.
Classic, long-running fast-food chain known for its burgers & fries.
Hours
| Thursday | 5 AM–12 AM |
| Friday | 5 AM–1 AM |
| Saturday | 5 AM–1 AM |
| Sunday | 5 AM–11 PM |
| Monday | 5 AM–12 AM |
| Tuesday | 5 AM–12 AM |
| Wednesday | 5 AM–12 AM |
Menu Photos
Order and Reservations
Order: Order online
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Fast Food in Russellville, AL at 15254 Hwy 43 – McDonald’s
McDonald’s | Russellville AL – Facebook
McDonald’s, 15254 Highway 43, Russellville, AL 35653, US
Reviews
What McDonald’s handed me was not a sandwich.
It was a war crime wrapped in a cheerful little cardboard coffin.
Let’s begin with the “cheese,” though calling it cheese is generous.
What I received was a particle.
A cheese atom.
Something so tiny I could have inhaled it by accident.
It wasn’t sliced.
It wasn’t divided.
It wasn’t even torn.
It looked like someone scraped a cheese slice with their fingernail and said,
“Ah yes… he’ll never notice.”
The cheese was so microscopic I’m convinced it qualifies as subatomic dairy.
A ghost.
A memory.
A whisper of lactose drifting into the void.
And naturally — NATURALLY — it wasn’t placed on the fish.
No.
Because that would show intention, coordination, or even the faintest understanding of sandwiches as a concept.
Instead, the cheese was flung against the lower bun like it was trying to flee the scene.
It’s dangling halfway off like it’s waiting for a rescue helicopter.
Now the fish.
Let’s talk about the fish.
This filet looks like it survived a hostile interrogation at an undisclosed location.
There is a hole — a literal, physical, metaphysical hole — burned through the center as though the universe tried to delete it.
Why is there a portal in my fish?
A void.
A negative space.
A cosmic wound.
If I drop a french fry in it, will it come out in 1983?
Will I see my ancestors?
Will I gain forbidden knowledge?
Why does my lunch look like something NASA would quarantine?
The bun?
Dry enough to qualify as silica-based building material.
The overall shape?
Resembling a decommissioned flotation device.
At this point, I’m convinced McDonald’s doesn’t make Filet-O-Fish sandwiches.
They summon them.
From realms unknown.
From dimensions where cheese is forbidden and hope has long since died.
And listen — I don’t ask for much.
I don’t want gourmet.
I don’t want Michelin stars.
I simply want the slice of cheese I paid actual American currency for, placed ON — let me repeat, ON — the fish.
If McDonald’s gives me ONE MORE of these sandwiches that looks like it was pulled out of a collapsed time portal, I will show up at the counter holding this thing like evidence at the Hague.
I will point.
I will diagram.
I will deliver a monologue so catastrophic the district manager’s name badge will melt off his shirt.
Fix it.
Because I’m one Filet-O-Fish away from becoming a cryptid employees warn the new hires about.
Either they are truly wonderful, or horribly shorthanded.
I had placed a breakfast order on a Saturday at 10:00 through the app for drive-thru pickup, but when we arrived, the drive-thru line was wrapped around the building and out in the road. I cancelled and we went to Burger King.
Every time i get to the 2nd window a super nice person named Tequila is smiling and always says a couple of nice words as she’s handing the order out.
It honestly puts me in a better mood to start my day!