I fucking hate fast food. I mean, I love eating it, sometime, when it’s done properly. But unfortunately that only happens never, so I’m constantly left hoping for some kind of fast food miracle every time I go, and I am constantly disappointed. Why? Why is this so hard for you people to get right? I have worked several fast food jobs, and I know for a fact that it is not hard to do. I know this. Why must you insist of fucking with me?
Here’s how the last few trips out to eat have been for me.
I went to Hardee’s because it’s right around the block from where I work and I THOUGHT it would leave me plenty of time to get back early during lunch and play some golf on our PS2. Unfortunately for me the Hardee’s near my work is kind of famous for having incredibly horrible service. After about ten minutes in line, which is the time it took for a meager four people to order, I finally got up close and personal with the she-ape they had stationed at the register. To say this woman was ugly would be like saying Elvira was “kind of hot I guess”.. I can assure you, this particular creature feature had no alibi. Not only was she some kind of side show leftover from the days of yore (think somewhere between cavemen and monkeys with sticks) but she had chest hair. Not a single chest hair, but rather a multitude of chest hairs. And they grew in strange little clusters, like kinky afro-bushes afraid to stand alone on a sweaty chest. Frankly, I found it horrifying. I can deal with ugly, even very ugly, but the horrible blasphemy of nature that greeted me with with a guttural croak was too much, even for me.
Perhaps it was her appearance that caused me to order incorrectly, we may never know for certain, but I could have sworn I ordered a chicken sandwich combo with a milkshake. Apparently it came out as, “I would like a shitty disgrace to the hamburger genre with soggy fries, no milkshake, and I would like it in seven or eight hours if at all possible.” I kid you not, half a fucking hour to get the wrong food. But being the busy little worker bee that I am, and having a real job such as I do, I no longer had time to sit in their lobby and watch their fine employees stand around not making food, for alas, my lunch break was more than half way over. I got back just in time to choke down my food, and I use that term loosely, and then jump back into my daily projects with nary a drop to drink. Why, you ask, did I have nary a drop to drink? Well, that would be because they did not have any drink holders for me to stabilize my sweet tea with, and since I drive a scooter, this meant that it was deposited all over their parking lot the first time I turned.
Skip ahead to the next day. Our young hero (me) has gone to Lowes during his lunch with his boss. Driving to the store, parking, walking in, finding the right tool, purchasing it, and getting back to the car took all of ten minutes. Sweet, fifty minutes of lunch break left, plenty of time to grab some quick McDonald’s and get back for some Hot Shots Pro Golf Fore, right? McDonald’s has got to be fast, they’re fucking Micky D’s man, an American classic for fucks sake. Surely, this is a fool proof lunch plan we thought. With all the confidence in the world we proceeded to cross the parking lot to McDonald’s. We got in a medium sized line, not too bad really for the lunch rush, maybe a five minute wait. Not so. After a lengthy stay in their parking lot/drive through we made our orders and proceeded to the wallet-rape window. Out of the window beams the face of hope. We’ll call this culinary professional Shamika McAsshat. Shamika chews her gum for a moment, opens her horse like maw, and booms out (at a completely unnecessary audio level, even outside voices aren’t that fucking loud Shamika) “Yeeuh, that’s um … Seventeen fifty aaaaight.”
Aaaight with me Shamika, no problem, I will gladly trade you my money for your fine food products, which I can now smell and are causing my stomach to growl and cramp up. You see Shamika, doing real work tends to build up a voracious appetite, which normally culminates around noon, a cycle I’m sure you are familiar with working in the fast food industry as you do. We hand her my debit card. The window closes. Our previous ray of hope slowly drowns in depressions and commits suicide in the interim between our first interaction and the time she finally opens the window again. The window burst open and she leans out in a casually disgusted way. “Yeeeuh, um, our credid card machine ain’t workin right now. You got any money? No? Oh, then sorry.”
Shamika, don’t lie to me. Something in the way you roll your eyes and make every slight move seem like climbing Mount Everest tells me you aren’t very sincere with your apology. Somehow I don’t think you are sorry. In fact if I were a betting man, I would put ten to one odds down that a competent person could probably get that credit card machine working properly. But that’s OK, you’ve only wasted a huge chunk of my valuable lunch break sitting cramped in a car pondering the finer points of death by starvation. It’s all good, you just chew your gum, make your time, and try not to break a sweat or anything. It’s not like there’s a huge fucking line of hungry ass people wrapped around the building expecting something even slightly resembling “fast” food.
Hungry and frustrated, and now thanks to Ms. Asshat short on time as well, we proceed next door to KFC, another monument to the fast food industry. No line this time, it seems perhaps lady luck has smiled upon us. We order our meals, and move up to the window. Apparently these windows have some kind of five minute minimum waiting period that I was not informed about. Eventually Shamika opens the window. Oddly enough I thought we had left her behind at the last joint, but sure enough either she was standing there or some equally as miserable and possibly mentally challenged welfare recipient. Could have been a clone, who knows, all those drive through panty wastes pretty much look the same. (please note, I worked drive through once upon a time, and fucking rocked face at that shit. I know first hand it’s not difficult. It’s not fun, but it’s not hard either, get it right assholes)
Shamika 2 tells me the sandwich I just ordered from her, ten seconds ago, seems to have vanished from the face of the planet. There are none in the restaurant, and it will take approximately seventeen minutes to cook a new one. Let me say that one more time for you, so you can really soak it all in: seventeen minutes. That’s three less that twenty minutes. In seventeen minutes I could drive home, make my own sandwich, and eat the whole fucking thing. I could raise my own god damn chicken from egg, slaughter it, cook it, and serve a multitude of sandwiches to a multitude of similarly starving people in seventeen minutes. What the hell kind of chicken takes seventeen minutes to cook? Seriously? Are you cooking it with solar power? Is there some new age chef in the back trying to harvest energy with crystals to deep fry me a fucking piece of chicken? What the hell is the hold up bitch, I’m eating myself alive over here, help a cracker out. For the love of all that is good and right in this world, do you just have another comparable chicken sandwich that is perhaps available in your restaurant that allegedly serves chicken as it’s specialty? Do you need me to come back there and make it my self?
After a few minutes thought she informs me that there is in fact another chicken sandwich that she could sell me which is ready. I’m overjoyed. I was so happy I popped a boner right then and there fantasizing about delicious dead animal chunks with crispy perfectly seasoned herbs and spices on the outside. Maybe there is a god, and maybe she doesn’t hate me.
The window opens, Shamika asks me if I want two apple fritters or some such bull shit. No Shamika, I do not want apple fritters, I want a chicken sandwich with fries and a drink, but at this point I will literally take any kind of food or food substitute that you have available so I can get out of this endless food purgatory you call the drive through. Why do you ask? The total is a dollar different and you’re too incompetent to be allowed the codes to change order totals? OK sure, fritter me up sugar tits, just give me some food before I climb out of my fucking window, drag you out of behind that counter, and curb stomp you American History X style, now WHERE’S MY GOD DAMNED FOOD? Beg your pardon, you’re out of root beer? How about Dr. Pepper? Out of that too? You know what, surprise me, I honestly don’t even care any more.
After all was said and done, we had spent forty five minutes of an hour lunch, gone to two food chains, ordered three times, and still not come out with anything close to what we wanted. My badass chicken sandwich with tons of cool delicious shit, like tomatoes, and lettuce, and cheese, was replaced by a chicken sandwich that consisted of what appeared to be deep fried leather in between two plain buns with three pickle slices all stacked directly on top of each other as if the cook had taken the time to align them perfectly. That’s my biggest fast food pet peeve, toppings stacked directly on top of each other. I understand you are probably a dipshit, and you hate your job, but just out of common courtesy and general decency, can’t you people just take the extra two seconds to spread some shit out? I want even flavor, not ten bites of dried out, plain ass, bull shit, followed by one incredibly intense ride down pickle mountain. God damn it, no matter where I go it’s the same fucking story, three pickle slices, aligned with nigh-robotic precision. God damn it I just want a decent sandwich!
With my blood pressure now reaching the vicinity of five hundred over twenty six hundred (I’m assuming that’s high, to be honest blood pressure always kind of confused me. Which is why I don’t work at a fast service medical drive through clinic, hint hint) I desperately dive into the meager slop pile in front of me in the hopes that I can get some of it into my belly with enough time for the food to outrun the alarmingly close malnutrition. I take a bite of the driest sandwich in the history of dry sandwiches, and savagely recoil from the sheer shock of it’s parching qualities. In hast I rip the wrapper off my straw and insert it into my drink. I suck and suck (that’s what she said) but no relief meets my sandy throat. As stars dance before my eyes and the world begins to fade around me I make a last ditch effort to fix my situation. I pull the straw out to look at it, and the end of it has been mechanically sealed shut somehow. What the fuck, this isn’t funny anymore.
Unfortunately, I passed on before I could get my knife out and cut the end off the straw. And that my friends, is the story of how incredibly shitty fast food killed me. You’d hate fast food too if it killed you.