Violent Acres

I very rarely eat fast food. Precooked food doused in salt and grease and left to marinate under a light for a few hours is decidedly unappetizing to me. However, every once in a great while, I’ll witness a commercial utilizing clever computer graphics in such a way that it almost makes the slop they’re serving seem edible. Staring at a close up of a juicy hamburger with creamy melted cheese does weird things to my brain and I’ll find myself compelled to at least try it again. Like an abused girlfriend, I keep going back to fast food restaurants, hoping they’ll be good to me this time, listening to them when they tell me they’ve changed, begging them to give me what I need. And every single time, I’m surprised when they woo me into the door only to demand that I not to cry as they rub another one off on my face.

I’ll never learn.

The last company to abuse me thus was Wendy’s. Apparently, they were running a special that flaunted a jalapeno cheddar burger. The commercial featured a juicy burger with crisp lettuce and fresh peppers. The bun was coated evenly in sesame seeds and looked as though it was just taken (piping hot!) from the oven. They zoomed in around the burger at all angles and nowhere did I see any cheese running down the side of the bun or sticking to cheap wax paper like glue. I thought to myself, “Maybe they’ve finally changed!” Then, I fluffed my hair, grabbed my coat, and skipped out the door.

When I entered the restaurant, I flashed the girl behind the counter my most winning smile. All confidence, I said, “I’ll take the jalapeno cheddar burger, please!”

“I’m sorry,” the girl behind the counter informed me, “But that promotion ends tomorrow.”

Cheerfully I replied, “Well good thing I happened to get here today!”

“I can’t serve it to you today, though,” she admonished.

All at once, my confidence evaporated. I wrinkled my brow and hesitantly asked, “Uh, why not?”

Very politely she informed me, “Because we’re closing soon.”

“What time do you close?”

“11pm.”

“It’s only 8pm now.”

“I know.”

Yeah. I didn’t get it, either. And I know I talk a tough game about standing up for myself and not allowing people to bully me. But, in this case, all of my half baked life lessons did not apply.

For one thing, the little girl behind the counter was not bullying me. She was being perfectly polite and respectful as she rejected my order. If you want to know the truth, she actually looked a little scared. It was almost as if she were bracing herself just in case I flew into a rage and pushed over the fucking kid’s meal display or something.

Secondly, it is a known fact those kids are ticking time bombs. Press them a little too hard and they will seriously fuck with your food. Like any typical American, my convictions are not so strong that I would be willing to eat a snot and cum sandwich to defend them.

“In that case,” I told her, “I’ll have a baked potato and a diet, please.”

She breathed a quick sigh of relief and scurried around for a few moments to retrieve me my meal. I thanked her for her efforts.

Then, I carefully took my tray to my seat. I snapped the plastic lid off of my baked potato and was not the least bit surprised to find it resembled a burnt Latino testicle. Depressed, I stirred my flat, lukewarm, diet pepsi and I thought to myself, “How could I be so stupid? It’s always the same. It will never change. I’ve got to give up on this! I’ve got to move on!”

I chose a corner booth, shrouded in shadows, so no one could see my shame.

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