Ladies and Gentletablets, I recently decided to
embark on a trail of self-betterment. I've changed a good many things,
including exercising consistently, attempting to eat somewhat healthier, and,
here's the big one, (mostly) not drinking. I've learned a good bit from
the past month, the most prominent fact being that when you don't drink
whatsoever, all of those other things just kind of happen. Long dead are
the days when you are intoxicated at 3:12am swearing on your first pet's grave
that you've never wanted anything in this world more than you want a Big Mac
and 20 chicken nuggets. Well, at least the days when I had to be drunk to
say that anyway, but speaking of that let's talk about the wondrous monstrosity
that is good ol' Mickey D's and my most recent excursion to said eatery.
After a particularly late night at work a few weeks
ago I was extremely hungry, and being that it was after 3am and everything
respectable was closed, my stomach sentenced me to 13 minutes hard time in the
McDonald's drive thru. This particular establishment is located on the
lovely Colfax Avenue in Denver. For those of you that haven't graced
Denver with your presence, this particular thoroughfare is known as "the
longest, wickedest street in America." Whether you want McDonald's
or crack, Voodoo Donuts or hookers, this street has everything you could
possibly need to shorten your life substantially. So, like a responsible
adult, I shunned all reasonable thought and dove headfirst into a hopefully
heroine-free double quarter pounder.
Now I'm not sure if you've ever been to a
McDonald's at 3am in a seedy area, hopefully you haven't, but let me say that
it is an absolute gold mine for people watching. In a sentence, it's like
if Paula Deen's estranged cousin hosted Burning Man at a homeless shelter.
And they had pretty tasty fries. The encounter begins with driving
up to the menu where you attempt to order through what is essentially your
fourth grade walkie-talkie taped to a stick. I was greeted by what seemed
to be a furiously malfunctioning robot, of which I understand absolutely
nothing. I gave my order, which I believe was supposed to show up on the
confirmation screen, but instead appeared to be a vividly colored painting done
by Picasso and Salvador Dali's love child. The rage-cyborg went on to
repeat my order slightly faster than an auctioneer late for his daughter’s
recital, so I politely asked him to repeat it a bit slower which did precisely
nothing to slow him down, and I proceeded to the second window hoping for the
best.
Side note: What the hell is the purpose of
the first window? Ever since I
can remember, they've been as neglected as the 9 button on the microwave.
Every time it’s "Please pull around to the second window."
Are they for decoration? Have they been quarantined? WHAT
AREN'T YOU TELLING US???
Moving on. I arrived at the aforementioned
second window and was given the first look at a the man who, despite not being
a poorly constructed robot, I could only assume consistently had a BAC higher
than his GPA and a credit score less than his weight. Harsh? Maybe.
True? Almost assuredly. We'll call him Groot because he had
about as much emotion as a tree, with a slightly smaller vocabulary. He
was an angry elf, if you haven't gotten that yet. Anyway, he was the only
worker there, save for an associate sitting far in the back glaring through the
window at me, who, in the words of PG Wodehouse, "looked like they'd been
poured into their clothes and forgot to say when." After a brief and
enlightening exchange with Groot, he left to gather my victuals leaving me to
myself for the moment. I spent that time absentmindedly looking around
the kitchen, whose inside was best described as "there appears to have
been a struggle." Groot eventually returned with my delicacies, and
sent me on my way with a merry "ThunksaMcDldsgdn." Nothing like
some solid human interaction to end your night. ThunksaMcDldsgdn to you
too, Groot.
Fact of the Day: In 2006, a man tried to sell
New Zealand.
Shout out Valerie Alvarado.
