I don’t have anything personal against McDonald’s, I just not a real big eater of greasy food. As a result, I do not go to these places often.
However, I’ve been battling the Annual Autumn Headcold this week. As a result, I have spent my time sleeping and slurping fluids and teaching kleenex to dance (by blowing a little boogie in them, donchya know) rather than cooking. The husband desired a hot breakfast this morning. In the interest of marital peace (we’re both cranky, both having colds) and because I felt up to it, I went to McDonald’s to obtain a hot breakfast for my loving companion.
Well, there was the usual early-morning clusterfuck in the parking lot. Goddamn, people - they aren’t going to run out of food! Slow down and take turns. Jimminy Cricket, you can’t ALL go through the drive in at the same time.
So I decided NOT to go through the drive in. I parked and went inside to stand in line. Most of my fellow line standers were civilized this morning. Mostly, they weren’t very awake and meekly lining up for their fried grease and coffee. All well and good. And if someone ran into someone else or stepped on someone’s foot due to early morning incoherence there would be much less damage than SUV bumper-cars.
Except - there’s always an except - the daffy lady wandering around, hopping from line to line, obviously somewhat confused. I think we would have liked to confront her on this behavior, but no one really had the energy and … well, she was that sort of vaguely creepy that leads a long-time city dweller to suspect drug abuse, mental illness, or some combination of both. In which case putting up with Daffy Line Jumper might not be the worst possible outcome. The rest of us did understand the concept of “taking turns” and if letting her go first got her out of our way, so much the better.
OK, Daffy Line Jumper finally got the attention of one of the order takers. At which point she went into a long thing about how she wanted her pancakes well done. The rather patient order taker tried to explain, several times, in words of one syllable, that the pancakes were pre-made, already cooked, and she’d be happy to warm them up to roughly the temperature of plasma but they wouldn’t get any more “done”. They were already “done”. Daffy Line Jumper couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the concept.
I never did find out how that exchange ended because it became my turn to order. I distinctly said “Two bacon egg and cheese biscuits with four hashbrowns”. The order taker repeated what I said - I was listening, she got the verbage right - I paid, and stepped aside ot await my food. (Actually, the husband’s food, minus two of the hashbrowns. I do like my greasy potatoes. Mmmmm… greasy potatoes…)
Well, along comes the food. “Here’s your sausage biscuits and hash browns! Have a nice day!”
“Ummm… what did you call these?”
“Sausage biscuits”
“I ordered BACON egg and cheese biscuits.”
Me and the chirpy bag-stuffer both looked at the order taker. She shrugged. “Same thing.” and turned back to her register.
“Nuh-uh. I ordered BACON egg and cheese biscuits.”
“The sausage tastes better.”
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!
WHAT is it with the McDummies? This is not about what YOU like, it’s about what the CUSTOMER likes! It is NOT the same thing. Bacon /= sausage! The only thing worse than the foam-rubber biscuit/yellow floormat cheese/fried gristle bacon combo is the foam-rubber biscuit/yellow floormat cheese/fried brillo pad sausage that’s actually in this bag. AGH!
The nice bagstuffer apologized and corrected the order. I thanked her and dodged the drive-in line to get back to my car.
Almost made me wish I’d had a sneezing fit all over the counter. But that wouldn’t be fair to the innocents that would be exposed to my cold viruses after I left. Still, I was having Evil Fantasies about a really good, snot-laden nasal explosion over the McDummy, followed by an “Oh, I’m so sorry… that just snuck out on it’s own…”
Anyhow, the husband was most appreciative of my efforts and very shortly we will retire to the bedroom to snore loudy in each other’s ear, sneeze on each other, and fight over the last remaining box of kleenex in the house - loser has to move to paper towels. Ah… the bliss of married life…!
I think this is one of the “in sickness” parts…
ACHOO! >snerk<
~grumble~
Just kidding. Here’s a kleenex.