Despite some firm allegiance to healthy eating habits, and at the risk of social treason, I readily admit that I enjoy fast food. I care not what you think. Wendy’s, Chipotle, Subway, Olive Garden … I have only fond memories of my first road trip to Sonic, in the same way one might reminisce about their wedding day or a childhood pet. There’s no shame in my snack game. I like it, and I like it served up right.
It doesn’t matter how many documentaries showcase a chicken nugget with a pube sticking out; I’m a daredevil. And I’m lazy. Sometimes poor. Or craving a Monterey Jack Cheese Chicken Sandwich with an extra beef patty, skewered by a hot dog, and topped with a bun made out of a doughnut. I eat like a pregnant inmate being presented with her last meal. The way I see it, as an avid doomsday hobbyist and lover of all things The Walking Dead, I figure at some point, we’re all going to end up eating crap like stale Twinkie rations anyway, may as well exploit my vice and stay on top of the food chain.
But there’s a phenomenon we all experience when we queue up for our hearty helpings of cancer in a bag. We scrutinize our servers. Is that the guy who puts two measly, wilting slivers of bacon on my sandwich as if this were Communist Russia? Will it take her more than thirty seconds to process my order, only to screw it up completely and leave me fantasizing about choking her out with a rope fashioned out of french fries?
You hope. And you pray, to the Holy Trinity of Ronald McDonald, Jared and The Colonel, that you don’t get the B-Team. The fucking B-Team.
If fast food were high school athletics, these guys wouldn’t even be JV Football. They’d be like some made up, non-competing team that the faculty created to make them feel better. Walking in the shadow of the coveted A-Team, the B-Team crew are the ones who you see behind the counter and you have to physically restrain yourself from walking out, because lunch is over in twenty minutes and the line is longer everywhere else. Your salad is going to suck. You are going to get food poisoning. These are the pube suppliers.
I don’t wanna hear all that yak about how I’m getting what I’ve paid for. I lobby hard for the heightened minimum wages of food service workers, and I’ve been treated better by dudes straight out of the Pen and into the Fryer than I have by the pretentious proprietors of wish-they-were-Michelin-star-rated restaurants. This is about integrity. When I worked in the service industry, I. Never. Slacked. A strange man could have kicked my dog that day and I was still serving with a wink and a smile. Why? Because it wasn’t the guy buying my croissant who did the punting. Keep that negative shit on the other side of the golden arches.
B-Teamers, here’s the deal. When you see me enter the restaurant, kindly step aside and allow Varsity to take my order. You are not allowed to assemble my meal, ring me up, or even make eye contact. I have only two vices in my life — fast food and an extraordinarily numerous amount of opened tabs in my web browser. I can’t eat Chrome, so I am DONE with you.