Most of the week I prepare good, healthy meals for my kids. But, as a dad with virtually sole custody of his children, it’s nice to take a break from that chore every once in a while. So, perhaps once a week, I’ll visit one of the fine fast food establishments on the way back from work and place an order, usually from the dollar menu, for my daughters and I. I’ll buy enough for dinner that that night and often lunch the next day (gotta put that microwave to good use once in a while). Sometimes I’ll even buy a burger or two for the dog and maybe a couple more if my girls plan on having friends over. So, my burger tally usually runs quite high.
It’s a better value to buy one large order of fries and then split them than to buy multiple orders of small fries, so that’s what I do. I also order a small diet coke for myself for the ride home. We have drinks at home for the family.
My self consciousness begins as soon as I enter the eating establishment and escalates as I’m waiting in line with more and more customers seeming to close in around me, waiting to hear what I order. And then the gates of hell open and I find myself in McDante’s Inferno. It’s my turn to place my order.
“I’d like a large fry, small diet coke and…uh…15 cheeseburgers.” Almost imperceptibly, but obvious to me, one of the cashiers eyebrows never fails to rise in an accusing fashion, accompanied by what I’m pretty sure is a tiny smirk. (why is a baseball bat never available when you need one?)
To push the dagger in further, they always repeat [loudly], “did you say 15 cheeseburgers?” Now every single busy body customer is looking at me with their stick up the ass facial expression of disgust and righteous condescension. (why is a battle ax never available when you need one?)
“Yes, 15 cheeseburgers”, I say sheepishly.
And then, with sweat beading on my forehead, I wait for the cashier’s inevitable coup de grâce. Time feels frozen. And then the final blow arrives: “is that for here or to go?” That’s what the cashier asks, but I’m certain what the cashier thinks is: *“why don’t you just park your fat ass over there, Mr. Pigman, and we’ll grind up your large fries and 15 cheeseburgers into a fine mash and slop it into a feedbag for you to strap around your ears so you can chew your cud to your hearts desire, at least till it explodes from congestive heart failure” *
What I’m thinking at this point is, *“why you low down smirking mutha f@!#er, your ass is a lot fatter than mine, if anybody needs a feedbag it’s you, McAsshole.” *
But, what I actually say is, *“it’s to go…for my family, thank you.” *