GOLDEN ARCHES AND PADDED WHITE ROOMS. 7.24.06
Maybe it's just a NY/NJ thing, but it seems to me the very worst part about McDonald's is not the maggot-infused beef, or the inaudible drive-thru speaker, or the cashier's blatant head lice and crack addiction. It's the customers.
This is a fact I often overlook, as I'm habitually found at the drive-thru, which is really my only reason for eating McDonald's in the first place... the luxury of lethargy. But last week, I unwittingly ventured indoors, to the place I've affectionately dubbed, "Li'l Third World".
First, there was a crazy old latino man (whose soul must've been possessed by El Chupacabra, as the latino culture doesn't believe in medically diagnosed psychological disorders) who was leaning over the counter, demanding his food and yelling at the employees, who of course pretended the guy wasn't there. As they'd place other people's meal trays on the counter, this guy would continually rummage through the food thinking it was his, before the true owner got up enough balls to snatch the tray away from him. Well, now it was my food coming up... everyone, hide your children.
- "Excuse me... you see that food right there? That's mine. When it gets over here, do not touch it."
- "Chit mang, i wait por dis food like halfa hour... where my food?! Dis mine?" (the rummaging commences)
- "No, like I said, that's my- ok what are you doing?? I just told you not to touch that food, jackass!"
- "I waiting porever por dis chit... dis mine?? Dis mine?? I ordera Coke too!"
- "Sir, kindly get your dirty hands the hell out of my food. It's not yours, I don't know or give a shit where yours is, but that's my $5 worth of food you just manhandled."
- "No, dis my food... dis mine?? Hola! Dis mine??"
- "Ok, someone back there get me new fries. If you people aren't going to do anything about this shithead, then go make me a new meal. Cause I'm not eating this shit after he touched it."
So that was fun. I eventually got my new tray of food, and sauntered over to the condiment counter. My path, however, was blocked by a fat old woman who was hunched over the ketchup and trash can. I thought she was simply taking her time with the ketchup or something, but noticed after twenty seconds or so that she had no interest in moving from that spot. You know when moths and spiders molt, and you see their exoskeleton perched somewhere, and it looks the part, but you soon realize it's actually just a shell of its prior existence? That's what this woman looked like.
Well, now that I've had two opportunities to lose my appetite, I finally make it to my booth. The food tastes like arse, yada yada, what do you expect. Incidentally, someone recently brought to my attention that my favorite meal to order- a quarter pounder with cheese value meal with a chocolate shake substituted for the drink- is about 3,800 calories, which is something no human being should ever consume in one sitting. Good to know.
The McDonald's gods were kind enough to let me finish my meal before starting back up with the nutjob customers. As I sat slumped in my booth, drunk off nitrates and special sauce, a 3-year old girl across the room belted out a shriek that sent a shiver down my spine. Lovely little critters. Its mother pointed a stern, sinewy finger at it and said, "NO! We don't do that here!!" Well, that genius parenting strategy was apparently lost on this young girl, as she retorted with a scream that was, without any doubt in my mind, the most ear-splitting sound that I've ever heard produced from a set of vocal chords.
How bad was it? I'll tell you how bad. So bad that my instinctive reaction (to protect my hearing I suppose) was to jump out of my seat and run over to the child to punch it in the face... and that is what I almost did. Fortunately, as I got within striking distance of the little brat, I suddenly remembered all those federal laws and stuff. The fear in the mother's eyes also aided my memory. I retreated back to my booth and gathered my trash.
Having satisfied my daily dosage of masochism, I brought my tray over to the trash. Of course, the old lady was still stationed in front of it. I looked at her. She looked back at me, though it was clear she was really trying to look back to a time when lifting her right arm didn't always result in her soiling her adult diapers. I turned around, threw my tray on a table, and walked away in defeat.