Hot fudge sundae. Hold the nuts.

Category: Humour

One day in the summer of 1992 my wife and I took a drive down to our local Dairy Queen. This despite my pleas that we would perhaps be happier staying at home and pulling our nails out with pliers.

“Alright! Alright!” I conceded. “We’ll go but I’m not going to enjoy it!”.

Flashback to that fateful day now…We have arrived at the Daity Queen and are waiting in line…

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“Ha! Ha!”. I look around the room. As I predicted, the D.Q. has twenty six patrons and just four waitresses. This fits in exactly with my ‘6.5 patrons per server waiting in line theory’ of fast food franchises.

The line-ups are shuffling slowly forward like the cast of a George Romero film waiting to reach the counter to devour the succulent Ice Milk. Yummm!

After ten minutes of this, I’ve had it. I notice that one of the waitrons (One Waitron = One unit of waiter’ing) is gone. There are now only three waitresses. I look behind and sure enough there are19.5 people in line.

We leave.

Gosh Darn, I say (or words to that effect), let’s go to McDonald's, they have sundaes there and they're much cheaper.

I remember, though, as I am driving there, that they will ask me if I want nuts on the sundaes. I hate nuts so I resolve to not let this happen. I just won't give them an opportunity to say it, that's all.

We get there and I go in. There are two lines of six people each already so I figure it doesn't matter which one I get in, the other one is going to move faster and I'll just have to put up with it. Let's see…, I make a quick calculation, as the other line moves forward, 13 people and 2 servers equals...you guessed it – 6.5 people per server.

"Two Hot Fudge Sundaes with nothing on them" I ask when I finally get to the counter. "Do you mean no Hot Fudge?" says the young girl behind the counter. "No. I mean no NUTS!" I raise my voice. "I was sure you were going to ask if I wanted nuts, and I don't want nuts that's why I said NOTHING ON IT. I DON'T WANT ANY NUTS O.K?!" I don't say this in a nasty way you understand, just a deranged psychotic way.

Anyway, by this time I can't help myself, I keep going....

“When I go to Wendy's and ask for a Coke the girl there says “Will that be a large Coke, sir?”. "What the heck I say, it's warm out and I brought my swimming trunks. I can just dive in to the LARGE COKE and cool myself off in the ICE CUBES that I didn't ask for that you're going to put in anyway with the ONE STRAW'S WORTH of COKE! No! A SMALL COKE please!" By now I'm on a roll. I can't stop myself.

“When I go to the Cineplex-Odeon Theaters and ask for a Coke there, I am confronted with three sizes: Drum size, Oil Tanker size and Mediterranean Sea size”. "Small Coke." I say, having foolishly heeded the sign outside that requests that “Patrons will kindly refrain from bringing food and drinks into the Cinemas”. “And give me a small popcorn with that” I add.

“Would you like some topping on that?”. “You mean butter?” I say. “No I mean topping, sir”. “PLAIN!” I shout. “For just 25¢ more you can get a large popcorn sir.”

OK! Here we go again... “Why don't you have it delivered. I'll be sitting right at the back listening for the beeping sound when the truck backs up. Just dump it in the aisle and while you're at it why don't you hose it down with some of that TOPPING!”.

“SMALL!” I snarl.

“That'll be $32 sir”. “For what?” I say. “The small Coke and popcorn” she says”. “Oh! of course” I mutter as I empty my wallet.

Poor girl, I think to myslef, my spleen now fully vented. I'm such a jerk. I finally calm down. Now I feel I should order something else and not complain. “I'm sorry.” I say, “rough day”. “Give me a Cheeseburger O.K?”. “O.K.” she says. “Would you like fries with that?”

Postscript

They don't let me use sharp instruments such as pens and pencils here at the 'Room for Rent Mental Institute Inc.' I have been given a computer with a shatter proof screen so that I can write though.

They used to call my condition Paranoid-Schizophrenia. They say that I am getting better, but secretely, I believe that they still think I'm paranoid.

I finish writing a nice little story about nice things, all calm and peaceful inside now. I press a button to SAVE my story then I press the EXIT key on the word processor. A message pops up - 'Are you sure you want to Exit?' . I explode!

Didn’t I just press the EXIT key? Why is it asking me if I’m sure. Yes I’m sure goddammit! Why would I press the EXIT key if I wasn’t sure?!!!!!

Outside of the room, an orderly taking a smoke break is looking in on me through a porthole in the door. He cannot hear me, but he can read my lips as I utter the words ‘AM I SURE!?’ over and over again and proceed to throw the computer across the room.

I think I'll be staying here for a little while.

Sincerely yours,
Napoleon Bonaparte
Emperor of France