Kris Vs. Burger King

Let me start with a disclaimer that no Burger King employees were harmed in the making of this blog entry, although there probably should have been. I also want to say that I harbour no disrespect for those of you that currently hold a McJob. It's an admirable profession, and somebody has to do it. Hey, wipe that smirk off your face. Yeah, I'm talking to you.

I have a long standing love hate relationship with fast food. On the CON side, you have the piss poor quality, the long term health ramifications and the oh so cheerful, please god fucking kill me now, employees. On the PRO side, there's nothing quite like a greasy burger when you have a nasty case of the munchies, or are just to lazy to fire up the stove. They also contain the holy grail of any eating establishment when you're a parent. The sole reason why its okay to let your kids out of their cages for the night and enjoy a meal you didn't have to cook yourself. I am of course speaking of the almighty PLAYLAND. This is a magical place where mothers and fathers can let their kids roam free, untethered, and without a care in the world. A place where a parent can for once enjoy a quiet, peaceful meal, without ever having to utter the phrases "Stop punching your sister in the face" or the classic "If you stick one more carrot up your nose, I swear to god...". You can see the dilemma I face in order to preserve my sanity.

So as much as I hate it, some days just call for that double bacon McFucking Fat meal. And don't forget my supersize, bitches. Tonight was one of those nights. I should also prerequisite this by telling you that I myself once held a fast food job. Between the ages of 13 and 15, I worked at a McDonalds. Because of this unique experience, I learned to hate mankind relentlessly, and only now, 12 years later, am I starting to see that the human race isn't really that bad after all. Except for mouth breathers. They can burn in hell. The point of all this exposition is that I know first hand the shit these poor bastards have to put up with. Working for slave wages, trying to please asshole customers that just can't be pleased. It is not a fun job. So I empathize with them, and always try to be as nice as humanly possible. Even though they always seem to screw up, 99% of the time I will smile graciously and thank them for a job well done, even if said job has been done piss poor. But I am only human, and as such get the urge to kill every now and then. This was one of those times.


I strolled happily into my local Burger King, not anticipating the frustration to come, although I should have seen it coming. The restaurant was completely empty, which gave me a false sense of hope. Surely if they weren't crazy busy, they could get my order right for once. Oh how stupid I am. I walked up to the customer service specialist, and although I don't carry a tape recorder with me for proof, our conversation went something like this. For my own amusement I will refer to the cashier from here on out as Ms. Cuntly. And just to mix things up a bit, I'll be Mr. Awesome.

Ms. Cuntly: Hi there, Welcome to Burger King. What can I get you tonight?

She managed to get this first sentence out without drooling all over herself, I noticed.

Mr. Awesome: Hi. I would like a King Supreme and a Spicy chicken sandwich please. But just the burgers, I don't want any fries or drink or anything.

It's rare that I order fries and drinks at fast food joints. I'm not sure why, but then I guess it doesn't really matter.

Ms. Cuntly: You would like hamburger?
Mr. Awesome: Um, no. I would like a King Supreme and a Spicy chicken. Burgers only, please and thank you.
Ms. Cuntly: What number please?
Mr. Awesome: Huh? I don't think we need to bring numbers into this. Just a King Supreme and a Spicy Chicken, please.
Ms. Cuntly: Okay okay. A hamburger and a chicken sandwich. Would you like anything else tonight?
Mr. Awesome: Wait wait wait. Let's back up for just a second. Let's do this one at a time. First, I would like a King Supreme. Punch that in, I'll wait, and then I'll tell you what else I want.
Ms. Cuntly: What number please?

It was at this time that I started to hear the Twilight Zone music in my head.

Mr. Awesome: There is no number. I don't want a combo or a value meal or whatever. Just the burger.

A look of realization slowly dawned on her face and I once again started to get my hopes up.

Mr. Awesome: Right on Ms. Cuntly, just one more item and we can wrap this up!
Ms. Cuntly: What did you just call me?
Mr. Awesome: That's not important right now. We're almost there. Now you just need to punch in a Spicy Chicken Sandwich.

She finished punching in the order and announced my total.

Ms. Cuntly: That will be $4.85 please

Now I'm not one to turn down a deal, but I knew immediately that this total was far lower than it should have been. And based on our conversation so far, I had a feeling that I was not going to get what I had ordered if we continued down this road.

Mr. Awesome: I'm sorry, but I really think the total should be higher than that. Can you read my order back to me?
Ms. Cuntly: Sure thing. You would like a hamburger and a spicy chicken sandwich.

The only thing that stopped me from jumping over the counter and making her my bitch at that moment was realizing that she got half the order right. We were making progress, and I had come to far to turn back now, or end up in jail on assault charges. Although I'm fairly sure I could have gotten off with a temporary insanity plea.

Mr. Awesome: No, no, no, no, no, no. I don't want a hamburger, I want a KING SUPREME. It's like a hamburger, but it has special sauce and lettuce on it.
Ms. Cuntly: Oh, you want a KING Supreme.

As if the inflection of the word King suddenly made everything make sense in her twisted little mind. She made the correction and announced my new total. It sounded right, but at this point I just wanted to start throwing my money at her in a feeble attempt to get the hell out the door with my dinner safely in tow. I moved along to the end of the counter to await the completion of my order, quietly thanking Jesus, Mohammad and Buddha for allowing me to survive this ordeal. Before I knew it, Ms. Cuntly was handing me my greasy sack of food complete with a well meaning smile. However, her other hand held a drink.

Mr. Awesome: What's this?
Ms. Cuntly: Your drink sir.
Mr. Awesome: Oh, okay, that's great except I DIDN'T ORDER ANY FUCKING DRINK! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? AM I ON FUCKING CANDID CAMERA OR SOME SUCH SHIT?!??!?!?!

Okay, so I didn't really react like that, but I was sure as hell thinking it. My actual answer was probably something far less assholeish.

Mr. Awesome: Oh I didn't order a drink. All I wanted was the burgers thanks.

I wonder if the throbbing vein in my head gave away how pissed I actually was. If it did, she didn't seem to care. She slowly shuffled over to her cash register and started to push random buttons (or so it looked from where I was standing). She was trying to figure out how to refund the amounts so that we could start this whole process over from scratch. Well fuck that. We're not going there. I swooped (swept?, no, swooped) into action.

Mr. Awesome: You know what, I don't care if I overpaid. It's really okay. Please just give me my burgers and I'll leave peacefully. No one has to get hurt.

She shrugged her shoulders and handed me the greasy sack. I can't be sure, but I swear I heard a chorus of Hallelujah erupt from behind me as the bag touched my hand. I clutched it to my chest and ran like hell for the door.

Once I was safely in my apartment I opened the bag to enjoy my hard fought dinner. Inside was a regular hamburger and a spicy chicken sandwich.

Fuck.

I really can't make this shit up people.