Tuesday, July 31, 2007

A Letter to Fast Food Window Attendants Concerning Service

Dear vacuum filled, customer ignoring, vocational rejects,


I'm fine, thank you.

No, I don't want a chicken poppler, thanks. I would like a chicken Caesar salad with a …


With a coke.

No, a coke! A coca-cola, you – yes!

What? What do you mean what kind of drink would I like? A coke you goddamned idiot!

Ok, you know what? No more stupid questions from you. My turn to talk.

You know what pisses me off? You make me jump through all these hoops when we both know that after I'm done trying to speak English to you, you're just going to give me whatever the hell you happen to find laying around anyway.

I mean seriously. It's like you all aren't even humans. You're some race of sub-sapien troglodytes that have been trained to parrot human speech phonetically to fool me into thinking that you have heard and understood my food order.

Like some sort of "invasion of the body snatchers" scene you've descended onto our blue planet completely undetected, but, instead of world domination, you've been sent here to give me curly fries. Curly fries; every damn time, in every damn Arby's, in every damn parish and county from here to Memphis.

I don't want curly fries, you fucking imposters, because curly fries are just regular French fries that were supposed to be delicious and satisfying but somewhere along the way from their harvest to this window they got fucked up so bad that their very existence is a blatant insult to my face.

Think of them as a dramatic, potato, reenactment of your own life.

You know, actually, I want to think you are a failed alien invasion because I don't want to admit to myself that humanity is capable of the lows exhibited in select drive thru windows everyday across America. That idea chills my blood, so, I sit in my care and I think of all the things you might be other than a complete waste of air and water.

Maybe you're some sort of government program to discourage our country from consuming so much fast food. Or, maybe you're some sort of malfunctioning holographic A.I. Maybe you're a spy who has just murdered the real window person and has to wing it on what little English the KGB taught you to keep from blowing your cover.



"Sooooo, you got my food?"

"Hallo. Walcome to Amareecan place of foods."

"Hey, they must be training you guys. You're much better than last week."

"Da. Are you likingk, sauces?"

"Yeah, sure. Why not?"

You get the idea, and really, I don't care what the reason is. I just want there to be some reason other than someone being that bad at their job.

I mean, I go up to the window and it's the same damn routine every time.

What is this, a duffle bag? Why is this bag big enough for me to use as a fucking Barney Rubble costume? I'm just getting one hamburger. Is this where all the big bags have gone when I actually do get a lot of food? Because it seems like when I actually get enough food for two people you just duct tape a plastic bag around the pile and dump the whole package in my lap like a kilo of blow.

And, why is there more coke on the outside of my drinks than in them? Are you stupid or are you trying to send me a message? Look, if you don't like my face, just go in the back and piss in my drink like a normal person. Don't hand me this Dr. Pepper bukkake nightmare with a big smile on your face sputtering, "here's your ant bait sir, please pull forward and we'll bring your food out to you."

No! I will not pull forward! Why don't you pull forward, so you can go fuck yourself!

Other drive-thru services have figured this out. It's only the fast food that is lagging behind. The rest have got it under control. They never give me someone else's booze at the liquor store drive-thru. I don't ever get half a shirt from the dry cleaners. And, it's not like I drive away from the pharmacy and ever find a handful of loose vicodin at the bottom of the bag.

Believe me, I check, every time.

And, I know that you all are paid less than the money it takes for a bus ticket home but there comes a point where the abuse and neglect just pushes me right into "I don't give half a rat shit" territory. It gets to the point where I'm sure that even with your paltry wages it would be more cost effective for the store to just install a machine at the window that, when detecting a customer has pulled up, just sprays mace right in their damn eyes and then plays a recording of laughter. At least then I'd know what kind of shit I was about to get myself into every time I had the munchies for some nuggets.

At the end of the day all I can do is thank God that you people haven't wandered into any other aspect of the food industry.

I swear if one of you ever found work at a local Pizza Hut, you'd spend all of your time delivering a turd in a shoe box to the wrong house a week late.

At least then I'd start getting my cold turds for free.

Chiggie Von Richthofen
I -aid c—ke –ou f—k—ng id—t!

Thursday, July 26, 2007

A Letter to Commercial Drivers Concerning the Road

Dear stupid and/or psychotic CDL carrying chimpanzee CRACK HEADS,

Where are you going?

WHERE are you going?


I shout only because I want my question to be heard over the roar of blood in your ears as you suddenly wake up in the cab of your 18 wheeler only to find yourself actually mother fucking driving said vehicle down I-30 at three in the afternoon when you were sure that you were still at the Petro station snoring on top of an open Easy Rider with half a bottle of Jack next to your smoke stained face!

10 minutes ago I was looking at the back of a USA Truck trailer and now I could swear that I was watching some drunken circus bear on a unicycle attempt to balance a ten foot high stack of pancakes on top of his head.

Seriously. What is so urgent inside that tiny cockpit that you think it appropriate to sashay 20 tons of steel across the world's largest catwalk, a.k.a., my goddamned lane? Did some wires in the engine get crossed causing the inside of the cab to become immediately electrified? Or perhaps, maybe, that colony of lice that has been living, nay, thriving on your furry ass has decided to stage a coup against the fleas on your back and a violent skirmish has ensued? Maybe you just got the funk and all you want to do is shake what the good lord gave you.

Regardless of the reason you have got to make a decision. Pull the hell off the road, or learn how to control your disco fever ass because there are people around you trying not to get crushed like a coke can by a truck full of official Bratz merchandise bound for the nearest Super Target, and you've got to cut that swerving shit out! You look like the pirate ship ride at Six Flags. I don't know whether I'm supposed to pass you or just wait in line until it's my turn to ride.

I mean, you have got to feel that right? That double load of wood that is swaying back and forth so hard the sawdust is spraying across my windshield? You know what a windshield is right? That is the object that normal, mortal, people use to protect their face and bodies from wind and whatever else might try to enter through the front of their vehicle. But, when I get into the territory of hoping the windshield will stop things from your truck bed, well, it would be like me hoping a condom would stop a bullet.

You make me wish I had two different horns. One that makes a normal honk noise and one that makes a noise like a crowd of women screaming. The kind of hysterical group scream that would occur if someone was shot outside of a deli in some late 50s gangster flick. That way you could get the full emotional effect of my warning. Honk would mean that you need to go at a green light. Screaming women would mean that you are about to roundhouse kick my van with an oversized pallet of steel girders.

Would that work? Would screaming women be enough? Do I need to get more basic than that to get your attention? Maybe I could get a horn that sounds like a large explosion, or maybe a dinosaur. Perhaps an air raid horn complete with dive bomber and anti-aircraft fire sound effects might make a bigger impression.

Maybe I should just build I giant plywood costume around my work van so that I look like a bigger vehicle. Use some animal kingdom psychology on the road and just fool the trucks into thinking that I am one of you.

Then again this might just be taken as a sign of aggression and dominance and the next thing I know I'd be rammed off the road by some jealous psychopathic Optimus Prime in his attempt to keep me from fucking his hot truck wife.

Really, my only recourse is to avoid you Mad Max motherfuckers at all costs. I have to keep my driving loose and adaptive so that I can take evasive maneuvers against you giant deranged land asteroids at a moment's notice, all the time John Williams urging me to get closer to one of the big ones.

All I'm asking is that you guys try to be a little more aware of the world outside of your cab interior. Try to realize that when you are bending over to reach that SlimJim under your break pedal that the swerving that ensues is a little disturbing to some of the other drivers. Some of the other drivers meaning all of the other drivers, and swerving meaning destructive homicidal rampage.

If you're tired, pull over.

If you're drunk, pull over.

If you are swerving violently to knock off the gremlin tearing out pieces of your engine in the middle of a thunderstorm, for fuck's sake, pull over! He's small, you could probably take him in a fist fight.

Thanks and Sincerely,
Chiggie Von Richthofen
The man you just ran into a XXX Super Store billboard