I was sitting in my car at the McDonald's drive-thru this
morning, having – this should come as no surprise – chosen the wrong dang line;
it was taking FOREVER. Anyway, the dude in the car in front of me
finally got to the speaker and placed his order. (I had my window down already, so I was privy
to the entire forthcoming exchange.) I should explain that the young man was Mexican. I understand this is the "politically
correct" terminology nowadays; individuals prefer to be referred to from
their country of origin versus Hispanic or Latino, but I digress.
Anyway, he proceeded to order something that neither I, nor
the young lady on the other side of magic ordering box, could understand. She – very sweetly – asked him to repeat his
order. He did. Ah, he wanted a Big Mac meal and something
else... indiscernible. It was 10:30a.m.;
the Mickey D's employee patiently explained they serve breakfast until 11:00a.m.,
whereupon the young man promptly ordered two double cheeseburgers. (Yeh, that
should do it.) I should also explain
that he had a VERY strong accent; it was difficult for ME to understand what he
was saying, let alone the poor girl inside.
Again, she explained they were serving breakfast, to which he replied, “Okay,
what do you have?”
Are you freakin’ kidding me?
Most three-year olds can recite the McDonald’s breakfast menu. (Can I get an amen?) Okay, by then I didn’t know whether to laugh…or
cry; the situation was both laughable and a little frustrating… if not
downright sad. I mean, I was feeling
sorry for…well…pretty much everyone involved; i.e., the Mickey D’s employee
steadfastly trying to do her job, the hungry-guy who didn’t know enough English
to make himself understood, and – last but not least – the poor schmuck behind
him who just wanted to order a medium caramel frappe, so she could get on with
her miserable, humdrum, dreary little life.
Needless to say, the young man eventually gave up and went about his business.
I’m sure there is a “message” in here
somewhere; I’m just not sure what it is.
