Unbagging the Cats 1

Unbagging the Cats 1

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Ptomaine, Schmomaine

Life's rich tapestry has dropped yet another golden stitch into the fabric of my existence. One more opportunity to compose an Unsent Letter.

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Dear McDonald's Manager:

I understand that you are commanding a less-than-ambitious work crew. Few folks aspire to retire after a rewarding career flipping burgers and proffering fries. However, as the leader of this wacky pack, you are responsible for their foibles.

I willingly paid my fee at the first window as directed. I even turned down the receipt. Because I trusted your fine fast-food establishment to uphold your part of the bargain. With only one car ahead of me, I expected smooth sailing.

But the sea was angry that day, my friend. Angry, like a teenage boy refused service for no shoes, no shirt. My clear passage through the drive-thru lane was thwarted by your too-long-leashed employees. My ship of hunger was stalled in the doldrums of their ineptitude.

My drinks were produced forthwith. Then I was asked to pull into the hurry-up-and-wait slot. I did so. Without a fuss. No more than an eye roll, really. A truck behind me was sent to a separate detainment arena. Ten minutes passed. The truck's food was brought out. Even though I was there first. The excuse that we were waiting for fries did not support this breach of first-come-first-served etiquette.

The van in line behind me was marooned at your hand-out window. I observed proceedings through my mirror. Purely for entertainment purposes. The driver received his sodas first. Just like me. He waited. And waited. I saw a bag of food pass through the window. He propped it on his portly abdomen. He opened it. He plunged his Popeye forearms elbow-deep into the feed bag and rummaged like there was no tomorrow. He folded the top of the sack and handed it back through the window.

Five minutes later, a new bag was foisted upon Popeye Forearms. A plastic bag. He peered inside, passed it to his passenger, and drove away.

I was left behind. Waiting for my order. Food I needed swiftly, because I had come from work to obtain sustenance. I was required to return to the workplace within the hour to host parents at open house.

The door opened and a juvenile approached. He poked a paper sack through the portal of my becalmed vessel. An excessively wrinkled paper sack, that appeared to have been folded, opened, crinkled, and re-folded. The food inside no doubt manhandled by Popeye Forearms.

I inquired of your underage minion: "Why is this bag so wrinkled? I certainly hope this is not the same bag of food that the guy behind me stuck his hands in before giving it back to you."

His answer was a shrug. "I really don't know anything about that."

Please tell me, O Great McDonald's Manager, how your workers can be oblivious to the basic public health guidelines which should be implemented in order to maintain a license to dish out foodstuffs to the masses.

Had I more time to spare, and the receipt I had so ignorantly refused, I would have stormed your castle of cholesterol and demanded a refund. Because I am not so ignorant as to assume that a complaint would garner me fresh food, free of tampering. I would sooner take my chances on ingesting microbes bestowed by the fondling my food had received courtesy of Popeye Forearms, an ersatz Typhoid Larry.

In the future, should I be served up an incorrect order, I shall take a bite out of each faulty item before returning it. Like my husband who insists on poking his thumb through every leftover roll in the bread basket, I pledge to save the public from recycled rejects.

And because I am such a Mother Teresa, I asked a relative to establish a scholarship in my name with the settlement he would receive if I died from McDonaldzuma's Revenge, after ingesting a meal so enthusiastically stroked by Popeye Forearms. A requirement for the award of such scholarship shall be an affidavit declaring that the applicant never, ever, worked at McDonald's.

In closing, I heartily wish you a belated feast fingered by a large, sweaty gentleman.

Signed,
Retching in Revulsion

4 comments:

labbie1 said...

I think I just threw up a little in my mouth! Ick!

Val Thevictorian said...

labbie,
Next time. use your purse. Like the lady did when the Women's Auxiliary barfed all over the Benevolent Order of Antelopes in Gordie's story about the pie-eating contest in Stand By Me. Or "The Body," if you are a short-story-reader more than a movie-watcher.

labbie1 said...

I will take that under advisement. LOL

Do you think McD's would pay for the new purse?

Val Thevictorian said...

labbie,
I consulted the Magic 8 Ball. "My sources say no."