You know when they say “Order when you’re ready?” I hate to tell you of this, but they don’t really mean it. It’s code for “Start talking, asswipe.” Maybe if they could say that out loud, the job would be worth the $6.50/hour they get paid, but alas, they can’t.

I know, I know, the menu is big and pretty and you got confused. Plus, you only had twenty minutes to peruse it while the three Dodge Neons in front of you were ordering. But guess what? It’s fucking McDonald’s. They’ve had the same basic menu for 50 years, so stop staring at it like it’s the Rosetta Stone.

Yes, they’ve recently added a bunch of chicken crap and salads to the menu, but let’s face it: you’re not going to order any of that stuff. After a solid half-hour of questions about value menu sizing, what you’re going to order is a Big Mac meal, Super-Sized. So stop kidding yourself that you’re going to live up to your New Year’s resolutions and order the damn thing so we can all get on with our lives. And don’t worry about the fact that it’s got about 600 grams of fat, because you’re going to leave the last two bites and four fries and convince yourself you didn’t eat much of it.

What’s that? You’ve got a soccer team to order for? Fuck you, buddy. Park that ‘92 Caravan of yours and go inside. I’m not sitting here in my car for an hour and a half while little Bobby figures out whether or not he’s allergic to the Fillet o’ Ecoli. He’s a crappy goalie and he’s going to throw it up when he takes a ball to the gut in the first half anyway.

Seriously, stop ordering Happy Meals. Now! Rob Thomas has been on the lite rock station my radio is stuck on for like the last half-hour and I’m going to put a tire gauge in my eye if I have to listen to another song while I slow-cook in my car. It’s a no-fault state and I’ve got enough room to get some decent momentum when my foot “slips” off the gas.

Yes, he said around the corner. Around the corner. Yes, drive around the corner. You’re in a fucking driveway; where else are you going to go? There’s a little wall on one side and a building full of miserable community college dropouts on the other; it’s not brain surgery. Just follow the little road to the little window with the guy who looks like Paul Wall on a bender.

NO! NO! NO! Do NOT back up! I will get out of my car and kill you with this broken Soul Asylum CD if you back up! I’ve already pulled forward; so have the 92 cars who showed up while you were asking how much more the 6-piece nuggets were. There is nowhere for me to go, and you do NOT need any more food! Stop! STOP! You ass.

Okay, I’ve got my McChicken sandwich and coke ordered, and I’m considering forgiving you. Oh, cute. Your 4-year-old son is staring at me out of the back window. Hi, little guy. Daddy’s a tool. Yes he is! Yes he is! And you’re going to grow up to be a tool just like him, coaching soccer teams to distract yourself from the fact that your wife has had a headache every night for the last seven years.

Okay, seriously. Stop staring at me, kid. It’s hot, I’m looking forward to undercooked and over-fried chicken for lunch, and I still have this jagged CD.

Dude, your kid’s starting to drool. Maybe you should have him looked at, before he ends up pushing a mop in this fine establishment.

Or maybe it just runs in the family, judging on the number of condiment packets you just demanded from the window. What the hell are you planning to do, build a fort? Take a sweet & sour bath? Or is your counting so off that you don’t realize that 172 barbecue sauce tubs for 6 nuggets is overkill?

Yes, your youngest kid gets a crappy Happy Meal toy. No, I don’t care that it’s the same one. What difference does it make? It’s a 42-cent piece of plastic made in Taipei, and it’s going to get tossed out onto the street in 4 minutes where it can get caught in my axel and manage to do $748.65 worth of non-claimable damage. No, you can’t exchange them. Tell Sling Blade back there to sack it up and deal; in a month he won’t remember what the Littlest Petshop was anyway.

Yes. YES. Drive away now. No, don’t pull up 4 feet and stop to count your cheeseburgers. I can’t… I CAN’T PULL UP TO THE WINDOW WITH YOU THERE. Idiot. Just a few more feet. Yes, they got it all. Wonder upon wonders, they got the order right. Now fuck off.

What do they mean, they’re out of barbecue sauce?

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Yes, I borrowed it.. but dammit, it’s funny!