mcdonalds

A Lunch Story

It would seem that everything funny happens at McDonalds.

I went there to pick up lunch because, well, I'm hungry and I'm gonna die one day anyways, so I might as well enjoy myself while I'm here.

Ordering was smooth and fast today and hooray, there's my order.  Even though it's only 2 things, I check the bag to make sure it's correct.  My fries don't look so good.  So I eat one.  Confirmation.  My fries are NOT so good.  For $1.89 and my health, I'll take fresh fries please, Alex.

So I sashayed right back up to the counter with those things they were trying to pass off as fries and said that I wanted new ones.  The girl at the counter (who I see nearly every time I come in there) informed me that all the fries looked like that today.  Well, fine, but you're at least going to give me some hot ones.  I'll wait.  I can see the fryer from here and I know they're almost done.

While I am waiting for new fries, up comes a lady to the front with her fries.  Apparently, I am not alone.  Following her was a guy with two orders of fries.  I didn't make a big stink, just asked for my fries to be replaced.  And while the other lady didn't make a big stink at the counter, her commentary walking away was priceless.

"Ya'll need to change the motherfucking oil or something.  This is MAC-DONALDS!"

Hahahaha, so this is who sets the quality standards for her food?  I shouldn't laugh.  That's actually a very sad statement. 

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Here’s my sign

I realize that most of you won't be able to read it because only people with whom I REALLY have no desire to converse can see it.  I'm pretty sure that, in big, bright, flashing letters it says:

PLEASE TALK TO ME! I DON'T CARE IF YOU SMELL OR WE DON'T SPEAK THE SAME LANGUAGE, SPEAK TO ME ANYWAYS. OH YEAH, IF I MAKE LIKE I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU, KEEP TALKING!

Right, so I went to get some french fries and happened to be in the line of the cashier who must have been haveily medicated as he was moving at the speed of, well, slow.  In front of me is a short, hairy, slightly smelly man.  Now, when I say short, I mean shorter than me.  I'm 5'2"  Get the picture?  Let me paint more.  Button down shirt, open at least three buttons exposing his gold necklaces making love to his gray chest hair.  Throwing up yet?

He's staring at me and starts to speak to me in Spanish which I politely ignore.  Lucky for me, he's bilingual!  Here's what he's staring at:

 

My boobs
My boobs

He then proceeds to start talking about my necklace and how it's so delicate and blabitty, blabitty, blah.  I'm sorry, I just want to get my fries and leave.  But, slow boy cashier has NOT picked up the pace.  I have given either one word answers to his incessant questioning or ignored it completely, but does that stop him?  Uh, hell no.

His next line is that I look like an artist.  No, wait, an actress.  I've seen her, yes, she is very funny.  I look just like her!  Did I justify this with a response?  No.  But I do know about whom he was speaking because I've heard it before.  Let's take a poll.  Do you think I resemble this person (outside of skin color and hair)?

 

MeWhoopi

Riiiiight.  Oh, yeah, I have my glasses on today since I like to see.  Anyways…

You might think that the conversation would end here, but no, it doesn't.  Because I look like her except younger.  What are you, like 19?  I'm 34.  24?  No, 34.  WHAT?!?!  Well, it is certainly not because you eat here all the time.  Do you cook at home?

I'm sorry, I fail to see how this is any of your G-D business!

At this point I have my cell phone out and am texting furiously to deter him from speaking to me further.  Not working. I'm not even kidding when I say that this next part is a direct quote.

"If I'm not bothering you, what is it that you do?"

IF YOU'RE NOT BOTHERING ME?!?! <sigh>

I'm an analyst.  Ohhh, you must be the boss.  No, I'm not the boss.  I do not wish to be the boss.  Ohhh, but why not?!?!  <insert desire to punch an old man here>

Well, you must give me your card. (thank goodness that I've only recently been promoted and my cards are not in yet) I just ignored that request. 

He says that he is writing a book.  He's "green".  For the last 5 years he's been riding his bike everywhere.  He doesn't pay for gas (although I don't know if that means he steals it).  His book is about being green.  Hey, way to be original.  So, tell me, analyst, how can I market my book. <insert larger desire to punch old man here>

I'm not in marketing.  But you're an analyst!  OMG, please get your food and go away now!

And finally, he did.  Another day on South Beach.

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Today, the universe hates me

Why would I make such claims you might ask?  Maybe this is best explained in bullet points.

First, though, let me say that it's okay to laugh.  Yeah, I'm mad but I'm also laughing.

  • Today in our office it is 10 degrees below zero.  Which is 10 degrees colder than usual.  My sweater means nothing today.
  • Storms are rolling in and out like crazy.
  • I am on a diet.  But sometimes, I just need some junk food.  Today happened to be one of those days.  It was dark out, but it was not raining.  I jetted across the street to McDonalds.  If I'm gonna splurge, I'm going big.  So, gimme a number 2 (QPC meal) and oh yeah, let me have a Key Lime pie too.  Yeah, it's piggish but I've had practically nothing but Weight Watchers food for three weeks now.  Money handed over and back to the office I go.  But guess what, now it's raining and raining hard.  I pick up the pace a bit.  All of a sudden, my bag seems a little lighter.  Why?  WHY?  WTF?!?!?  The bottom fell out of the bag placing my french fries, QPC, ATM card, telephone and Key Lime pie on the ground in a puddle.  My exact reaction?
  • MOTHERFUCKER!!  The bums standing around loved that one.
  • Bums were kind enough to pick it up and silly enough to ask me if I was gonna eat that.  Are you kidding me?!?!  People piss on these streets and this little bit of rain isn't enough to clean it up. I don't care if it's still in the box, it's in a PUDDLE!
  • $7 down the drain.  Literally.
  • Now I'm back in the office – cold, wet, and without my junk food, eating what?  You guessed it, another Weight Watchers meal.

Life's a bitch and then the universe grabs the bottom of your Mickey D's bag.

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