And usually, it is but I went through the McDonald's drive-through. I know what you’re thinking, whatever ever happened, you had it coming to you.
It’s a three-phase process. (1) You order on the intercom. (2) You pay at the first window. (3) You pick up at the next window.
At step 1, the intercom, the person speaking back to me talked so fast I thought I was at a Beijing McDonald’s. Once I dialed them back from 78 to 45 and eventually 33 1/3, I was able to order.
At step 2, a girl with purple hair, studded tongue, pierced lips, and nostrils took my money. Admittedly, though, it’s not that different than seeing a clown with bright red hair and nose, a chalk-white face, and smiling like taking his last gasp of life.
At step 3, which I like to call Death Con 3, a guy appeared in the pick-up window with round spacers in the lobe so big you could drop a Lady Liberty Half Dollar through them. Who could eat after that? In nearly unintelligible language he tells me to pull forward. Apparently, my order was not cold enough for pickup.
Gone are the days of the youthful polite young ladies and gentlemen waiting on you with cheerful smiles and buoyant greetings. I miss the nerdy boy and shy girl with the only visible metal being their braces. They were full of hope and enthusiasm about their futures.
What I see now is a collection of misfits who are at the end of their road before taking the first step of their journey into life. It was, find a job or go to juvy. How they manage to keep from falling face-first into the French fryer beats me.
In a generation, we’ve gone from acne to meth sores.
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