Monday, January 14, 2008

Five Reasons to Quit Fast Food

1. Getting first angry, and then mocked, for not understanding the elegantly engineered system of numeration (in complete opposition to that of the standard Arabic/customer-centered system) present at a McDonald's in Irving, Texas when I was told to pull through to the second window. Starting from the ordering menu and intercom, I counted windows.... 1.... 2... A paper-hatted teenager then waved me down while I was at (by my reckoning) window TWO. "Hey! HeLLO!!!" he shouted, indicating that I should have paid at WINDOW ONE, which in this trans-fat-dealing bizarro world was apparently window two. I tried in vain to explain why that numbering system made no sense and they were all rank fools. From the way they looked at me while I was conveying this seemingly universal wisdom, I might has well have been dancing the Chiquita Banana dance with a big ol' turban full of hot-glued fruit on my head. I drove away, mystified as to how none of them had yet reached into the fryer barehanded when fries were "up."

2. Driving up to the box, perusing the menu (as if you're going to order something besides the usual 900 fat gram selection) and waiting. And waiting. And waiting. And getting more and more pissed off. And waiting. Finally driving up to the window and stating one's order as the employees, freshly hired from the Job Fairs for the Apathetictm look wanly on. ("Don't give a SHIZNIT?!?! Come work with the best!") At Taco Cabana, while trying to obtain the most delicious fresh tortillas in the Dallas metroplex, I have waited so long that I began to worry that the staff had actually been gunned down.

3. Going inside, thinking that will help, while a woman with flour-caked arms and (disgustingly) long fingernails walks around aimlessly from grill to pan o' raw chicken in flour to counter to drive thru window to grill to fryer to pan o' raw chicken in flour to the register (which she attempts to work with arms so entombed, then fails) to the counter to the register, then, and ONLY then stating, "I'll be with you in a minute" to fryer to counter to grill to chicken pan, slowly bouncing and turning like a piece of frying fowl in grease herself, to towel, where she wipes a half-inch of crusted raw chicken dripping/flour off said arms to register, where finally, unheeding of the customers' fury at her inefficiency, she drawls, "Can I help you?"

4. In Paris, I saw no fat people. In the world headquarters of the tres chic, there are no drive-throughs, and no tennis shoes either. Perhaps if we forego one, we can forego the other.

5. Having elevated triglycerides and overall fattishness so that avoiding fat is mandated by a health professional in the hopes that some of your own high fat content will melt away.

Not that I know anything about that.

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