A Letter to Fast Food Window Attendants Concerning Service

Dear vacuum filled, customer ignoring, vocational rejects,

Hi.

I'm fine, thank you.

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

What? No. Chicken Sal-- SALAD! CHICKEN CEASAR SALAD!

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.

"Hi."

"Hallo."

"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.

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