Friday, February 22, 2008

A Letter to "People" Concerning Decisions

Dear confused, sleepy, nervous, prosimian, space-wasting jackasses,

I want you to ask yourself a question. And, don't just take it for granted. I want you to really search your soul, you're very being, for the truth. For what you think is your one true answer.

Are you ready? Ok, good, because here it comes.

What do you want to eat?

Did that question catch you off guard a little bit? Weren't expecting something quite like that to be the question I wanted you to ask yourself? Well, it fucking should be! Because we're in a fucking burrito place and you're first in MOTHER FUCKING LINE!

What did you think was going to happen once you got to that sad-faced minimum wage teenager with surgical gloves on inside out? Did you think he wasn't going to ask what you wanted to eat? Just like you thought I wasn't going to get so pissed I wanted to punch you in the neck while you just stand there like a fucking moron?

Don't look at me!

Don't you fucking look at me, Hoss. You look at that goddamned menu! It's go time! It's time to be a big boy and tell the nice man what you want for snackies. Instead you're standing there frozen in fear. Like your back in that harsh spotlight at the '82 regionals all over again, forgetting the words to Over The Rainbow right before tinkling your panties in front of everybody. Just pick something!

Look, this is a fast food restaurant, OK? Let me give you a bit of advice. Odds are any place where you order your food before you sit down isn't going to have too much variation on the menu. So just close your eyes, raise your arm, point at anything and say, "that one." You know, like a pressured witness at a police line-up.

OK. Hard part is over.

What are you doing? Pay the lady. Why did you just put your credit card back in your wallet? You want to pay with cash? What the fuck does it matter? It's 7 dollars, just give it to her!

Ok, that didn't work. It didn't work because you only have 4 dollars. That means that as far as your cash goes, you can't afford to eat here. Give her your credit card! What are you doing? Why are you looking in your wallet again? I can see from here there is no more money in there! It's not going to suddenly appear! Just give her your goddamned cred …don't count your change!

Son of a bitch, Ernest, if you don't pay that lady for your food right now and let me get out of here I swear to god I'm going to slam your head against the counter until your dead. Then, me and the other guy you've been holding up for the past half hour are going to walk you around, Weekend at Bernie's style. All making you wave at ladies and getting into crazy adventures. The only difference being, that instead of trying to convince everyone in town that you're alive, we'll probably just leave you face down in that dumpster behind Courtyard Coffee.

All fantasizing aside, it really seizes the gears in my clockwork brain to see a grown person staring slack jawed and rubber necked up at a glowing menu, like it's a UFO in the back forty, not able to decide if they want a hamburger, or a hamburger. I mean, really, how worse is your life going to be if you mess this one up, Chief? Do you think the ten minutes it takes you to wolf down that half ounce of beef and 3 pounds of grease are even going to register in 2 hours? You know, besides the painful explosive diarrhea?

And while we're on that subject, let's be honest, there's nothing on the menu that's going to change the consequences of this meal, as it is the establishment itself that promotes the full scale evacuation of your internal organs. So just by walking in here you've signed the contract absolving the restaurant of any and all accidental anal demolition for the next 12 hours.

What I'm getting at is this. No matter what you pick from this menu, you're going to need at least five dollars, it's going to be ready in about 10 minutes, and you're going to need a can to shit in later at work in case you can't get out of your cubicle fast enough.

Maybe you already have a can to shit in. I don't know. But you just don't strike me as a prepared individual so I went ahead and threw that in there.

All I ask is that when you walk up to that counter and it's time for you to place your order, just place it. Decide first, then order. Decide first, then order.

Try not to be such a fucking loser all the time. Try not to be such a fucking loser all the time.

At the rate you're going, it's going to be tomorrow before I'm able to piss and moan about how this place got my fucking order wrong while some crack head trucker tries to kill me on the way home.



1 comment:

Bill Slyngstad said...

Yo, Chiggie, it's Hemi. Some of your tags aren't working. [i] and [/i] are showing in text. Other than that keep up the good work. :)

I'll link ya up on my blog,