So I get off work today, Razorette’s enroute home from a seminar in Denver, so I stop at the local McD’s to pick up supper. A rather large Lincoln pulls into the parking lot just ahead of me, and two women and a man get out. We all go into the McD’s, and it becomes apparent that one woman (larger of the two) believes the world revolves around her; the other is mousey, despite her considerable size, and the man is utterly aloof. As we order and wait for our meals, a handsome young Hispanic man is conversing in Spanish with a lovely young lady behind the counter, who is giggling, also in Spanish.
Presently, the trio gets their order; the man takes the bag of food and heads toward the door, Mousey gets her diet soda, and Her Royal Highness bothers the counter girl for a replacement cup for her water (the original had a bent rim.) HRH then discovers that there is lemonade coming out of the water dispenser. She reports this and demands a new cup. The manager is summoned. He perceives that a mixup has been made when the help recently changed out the drink canisters; he disappears into the back. He has barely disappeared when HRH loudly wonders where he has gone and how long she must wait for a simple drink of water. Counter Girl responds patiently that the manager has gone to check the hookups, and will be right back. A moment later he appears and says all should be right. HRH again tests the spigot, again draws lemonade. With great flourish, she deposits the now soiled cup on the counter and demands that her money be returned. The manager assures her everything is OK, presses the spigot button and holds it down until the lemonade is discharged and clear water flows. A new cup is produced and filled. As the crystal clear Colorado water flows into the cup, Her Royal Highness declaims to all who can hear that this is the worst service she has had to endure “since Florida,” whatever that means.
Unable to contain myself, I remark to the ever-patient manager, “Y’know, the trouble with tourist season is that you can’t actually shoot 'em.” There is a stunned silence, into which the young Hispanic man leans and opines: “That’s okay – the hides are worthless and they taste like shit.”
I almost peed my pants.
HRH grabbed her lunch and marched indignantly out the door, Mousey right behind her. The manager appeared on the verge of a heart attack. Hispanic Lad winked at us, picked up his lunch and left.
If we’re all lucky, Her Royal Highness will never stop in Colorado again.