1 post tagged “fast food”

After reading poor Joanne's story concerning hillbilly teens and they're lack of manners and gastric control, I had to post a little something about our Sunday trip to Burger King. Even though we have a McDonald's on every freakin' corner of this city, we only have ONE Burger King. I do love me some BK. The unfortunate thing is that the one and only BK is across town, near the college campus. Thus, it's in the Ghetto. The area around the university used to be a stronghold of hippie fortitude and frisbie golf. But during the late 1990's when Ashley and I lived there, the demographics began to change from lazy 60's radicals to crack den criminals. The block we used to live on was nothing but professors, college kids and retired people. It was safe and interesting. You know, your typical liberal street a few blocks from a campus of 26,000 people. 

But then it started to change. The small salt-box type houses started to get rented by drug dealers and single moms. The once "cool" street became a bastion of blaring hip-hop and drugs much stronger than maryjane and lots of robberies. That's when I decided that buying a new home across town was the way to go. So we moved across town into our nice little plastic starter home. That was ten years ago. A few years later they built a bunch of apartments down the street (in both directions, no less) and now we see gangs of teens roving in the middle of the street. They won't get out of your way when you're driving. I almost killed two of them the other night. That's a completely OTHER rant. 

Anywho, our local football team, The Tennessee Titans are the only undefeated team in the NFL, so I took to watching the games these past few weeks. Ashley asked if we were living in Bizarro land. I don't normally watch any sports that don't have a puck in them. So while watching The Titans beat Chicago yesterday, I got a craving for a Whopper. Damn BK advertising! So we jump in the car and head over to The Ghetto. 

When we arrive, the line for the drive-thru was crazy long, so we somehow parked amongst the rusted hooptees and crappy Cadillacs and ventured inside this fine dining establishment. Oye. And I do mean OYE.

The first people in line are what seem to be two young cosmotology students. Apparently they were taking orders for the WHOLE school. They had a list and money. All in SEPARATE envelopes. Class on Sunday??? WTF??? The little girl behind the counter, Shoshanda, was undeterred. Good for her. That order took at least 10 minutes. Meanwhile, the rest of the restaurant was filled with elder retarded people. I'm not trying to be mean or anything--they were actually retarded, as in "mentally handicapped." No big deal. 

Except that a few of them were walking around touching stuff. Kiiiiiinda freaky, folks. Touching stuff freaks me out. Big Time. We just ignored their silly handicapped ways. Or tried to at least...

But one of them had a whole lot of moles, was sorta hunchbacked with REALLY bushy eyebrows and he kept cackling in a VERY low voice. Not low as in "quiet" but low as in BASS. It was super-duper freaky. BURRRR!!! Cackling in that maniacal Dr. Frankenstein sorta way. And moaning, let's not forget the strange, low moaning. By this time in our 10 year marriage, Ashley completely understands my hatred of people and starts to see my eyes darting to and fro in a frenzied panic. My neurosis has kicked in and my wife notices. She looks at me and says in a calm voice, "it's OK--DON'T worry."

I'm thinking to myself, "I could be at home eating frozen Taquitos. These people are FREAKING ME OUT, MAN!!! STOP TOUCHING EVERYTHING!!!"

Finally the Ghetto make-up and hair students are finished. Whew! Next up is the large, inbred-looking evangelical family that's fresh from the Babtist church, no doubt just leaving a sermon on the evils of our president-elect. I hate to stereotype people, but...

Large people. No big deal, we're all large nowadays. Cant' fault them for that. But the mom was Amazon tall. Taller than the sergeant Dad.

Crystal Gayle hair on the wife and all the little girls (and big girls). 

Crew cut on the dad and wearing snakeskin cowboy boots--with his black suit/black shirt. Bad moustache. Even worse necktie. 

Clothing looks hand-made. ALL OF IT.

So they start their order. Regular folk simply look up to the super-easy-to-choose-from-eat-by-numbers menu, but apparently that was too hard for Ma and Pa Kettle (they were actually in their early 40's--maybe even late 30's). Trying to save a few cents, they make a valiant attempt at ordering a mish-mash of food. 

SCREW THE NUMBER SYSTEM! DOWN WITH THE MAN AND HIS KING OF BURGERS! WE'LL ORDER HOW THE HELL WE WANT!

This lasted for ten minutes. 

And it was all wrong. All of it. Every single little bit of it. Ashley lets out a big sigh as I visibly tense up. Asscheaks clench together and my hair begins turning a whiter shade of pale. The cosmos begin spinning and my breathing becomes short and stacatto. 

They look over their shoulders at us. The woman has too much rouge on, I think to myself, while trying to pry my angry fingers from the banister I'm leaning on.

MOANING coming from the left of me as Mr. Moley McHunchback starts fingering EVERY PACKET of ketchup available to the general public. HE looks over his shoulder and smiles at us and then moans in the lowest voice I'd ever heard. I think to myself, "why is he touching and playing with EVERY SINGLE PACKET OF KETCHUP???? IT'S LIKE HE'S PICKING OUT HIS NEXT VICITM!!"

Cackling to the right of me. 

The manager steps up to the counter to VOID THE WHOLE TRANSACTION!!!

THE WHOLE FREAKIN' TRANSACTION!!!

Meanwhile, Ashley says "honey--go outside. I'll take care of this." She can see the panic in my eyes. "Just go outside and I'll bring it. Maybe we should have gone thru the drive-thru?"

Apparently not. Because while the Deliverance family was ordering, the last three drive-thru Ghetto-ites had to park their Ghetto cars and come inside to get their Ghetto order fixed.

One white pregnant hip-hop girl. Wrong order.

One sassy black chick. Wrong chicken sandwich.

Another sassy black chick. Short-changed. 

Another ten minutes goes by as they FINALLY get their order worked out. FINALLY. We put our order in and get drinks. I decide there is no way I can enjoy the sublime Whopper and Rings in this environment of moaning, cackling hilltoppers, banjo-strumming hillbillies and "urban" thugs. We get our order and make like a banana split.

The fruits of my labor? 

Massive stomach cramps and Olympic-sized diarhea. I could have won the gold medal for runs yesterday.

Stupid Ghetto BK.