Maybe We Should Just Get High

Saturday was not my day.

First of all, it was cold and rainy. Now, I love me some chilly Fall weather. But I like it with a side of sunshine and crunchy leaves, not this wet, soggy shit show we’re having now.

I don’t go out on weekends when the weather is like this, but I had an appointment to get my nails done. My motto is: Neither rain, nor sleet, nor police chase ending in suicide shall keep me from my nail and hair appointments. That last part actually happened when I was trying to get to a hair appointment and all the streets around my salon were blocked off because of…you guessed it…a police chase that ended in the guy driving over the curb, onto the median, and then checking out with a 38 caliber.

I was late, but I still made it.

Unfortunately, the guy being chased did not.

Anyway, back to my Saturday. I got out in the yucky weather to get my nails “did” and then I promised the kiddo I would stop at McFartles to pick up some fast food McPseudoburgers and McChickenlips for lunch.

There’s a location very close to where we live so that’s usually where I stop because it’s just convenient. The only problem is, THEY SUCK A BIG BAG OF DICKS.

You see, the last five or six times we have stopped there, they have managed to fuck up at least one part, if not all of our order. Why do we keep going back? Because it’s a fast food joint and my standards for that kind of establishment are pretty, pretty, pretty low. Like the bar is laying on the ground low. Like politician trying to get elected low. Like Garth Brooks’ friends in their places low.

I don’t expect Michelin Star rated food or service. I just expect that when I say, “I’d like a number three” that I’m actually going to get a number three. And probably heart burn. Or diarrhea. Or all three. I mean, that’s why they number the meals, right? To make it easy for everybody? Especially the guy punching the numbers on the cash register?

So here’s exactly how this went down.

Speaker box: Welcome to McShit’s. Can I take your order?

Me: Yes. I’d like a number three with bacon. (Long pause because I know if I go too fast, I’m going to be repeating everything.) Please make that a large with an orange soda.

Speaker box: Okay. Can I get you anything else?

(Oh, yes, mysterious voice. I have a teenager and a man who can eat three times his weight. There will be more. Much more.)

Me: Yes. I need ANOTHER number three with bacon, also a large, with a Dr. Pepper.

Speaker box: And what else can I get you?

Me: I need a number one with a Coke. Then I need a PLAIN Quarter Pounder with cheese (This is Kova’s burger. Yes, the dog gets a burger.) And finally, I need a twenty piece Chicken Parts with BBQ sauce. (That’s the second part of Shane’s meal, for when the number three wears off after five minutes).

Speaker box: So what was the one you wanted plain?

Me: A Quarter Pounder with cheese.

Speaker box: With large fries and large drink?

Me: No. Just the burger. Plain.

Speaker box: Okay your total is (insert national debt number right here).

I drive around and pay. They hand me my receipt, and knowing full well they always screw up, I check it. It has everything on it except my meal.

Me: You totally forgot one part of my order.

Girl at window: Oh I’m so sorry. What did we miss?

Me: I had a number one with a Coke.

Girl at window: So you’re just supposed to have a number one?

Me: No. I’m supposed to have a number one AND all the other stuff on this receipt.

Girl at window: Ok. Can you just pull around and park and we’ll bring it to you.

I pull around and park in the row of shame. You know, the four parking spaces facing the drive thru, where you go to sit when you’ve been difficult so they know which orders to spit in.

I start checking the rest of the bags to make sure the order is right. The two number threes? They’re supposed to be Double Quarter Pounders. They’re singles. I’m already picturing the hangry rage that will occur if I come home with these.

When the girl brings out my number one, I point out the mistake and hand her her the two singles.

Me: These are supposed to be Doubles.

Girl: Doubles?

Me: Yes.

Girl: Doubles?

Me: Yes.

Girl: With bacon?

Me: Yes.

She takes them and goes back in while I mumble something about making the loogies extra phlegmy.

I finally get the rest of my order and head for home. Upon unloading all the food, I discover a miraculous event has taken place in my car without even knowing it.

My Coke has magically turned into a sweet tea.

Yes, that’s right. After all that, I still manage to get home with the wrong drink.

Now, let’s ponder the great mysteries of food service for a moment.

I go to Happy House, where the staff all speak Chinese and very little English, yet my order is NEVER wrong.

I go to Fiesta Mambo and get a waiter or waitress who mainly speaks Spanish and yet when The Husband Dude and Shane order in English (I like to order in Spanish because it feels like home), they always get the order right.

I go to McShittles, and get someone whose ONLY LANGUAGE is English, and my order is wrong EVERY. DAMNED. TIME.

So after we clogged our arteries and I drank my Sweet Tea flavored soft drink, we decided to go run some errands and get them over with so we could just veg out the rest of the day.

One of the stops was the drugstore to pick up a couple of my prescriptions.

The pharmacist goes to hand me my prescription and I notice that it has a different name than what I normally take.

Me: I don’t take this one. I take (insert name of drug here).

THD (mumbling under his breath): Is this going to be another McShitstorm?

Pharmacist: Oh, well, your doctor probably prescribed this one because your other one has been recalled.

Me: Recalled? Why was it recalled?

Pharmacist: Well…it had some chemicals in it that have been linked to cancer…

THD and I exchange looks.

Me: I’ve been taking that drug for ten years and now you’re telling me it has been linked to cancer?

Pharmacist: Well not the drug itself. Just the one chemical. They are now manufacturing it without that chemical.

Me: Oh, well…that makes me feel MUCH BETTER! How about the other prescription? I’ve been waiting two weeks for it and I keep being told it’s out of stock.

Pharmacist: Let me check that for you.

She looks at her computer screen, then looks at us like:

Pharmacist: Did you recently change insurance?

Me: Yes, we did. Why? Is it not covered now?

Pharmacist: No, it’s not. Are you aware of how much it costs?

THD: If you say five hundred, or four hundred, or three hundred or hundred hundred, we don’t want it.

Pharmacist: It’s a little over two thousand.

THD and Me:

Me: DOLLARS?!?

Pharmacist: Yes. I assume that’s a no.

Me: That assumption would be correct.

We drive away in silence for a bit.

THD: What was that medication for?

Me: It’s a B12 supplement, since my body can’t absorb B12 as well since my weight loss surgery.

THD: Well that’s just fucking bullshit! Two thousand fucking dollars. Big Pharma can kiss my ass, those cocksuckers.

Me: I guess I’ll just slowly die from vitamin deficiency…

THD: There’s gotta be an herb or something you can take…

Me: If the cancer from ten years of exposure to that chemical doesn’t kill me first…

THD: That’s it! No more fucking prescriptions. None of us are taking any more meds.

Me: What are you talking about?

THD: We’re all gonna smoke pot! All of us.

Me:

THD:

Me: They give you drug tests at work.

THD: Yeah.

Me: Now that I think about it, though, they didn’t give me one for my new job.

THD: Well aren’t you special.

Me: I want brownies, though.

THD: We’ll get you a prescription.

Me: I don’t think pot is going to solve my B12 deficiency.

THD: No, but it’ll make you not care.

Me: True dat.

The day wasn’t a total wash, though. I sat down on the sofa to write this post, and THD texted this to me:

He gets mushy sometimes. Even when he’s still raging about Big Pharma and how we’re going to move to the country and grow our own “medicine”. Gotta love that about him.

Stay weird, my friends. Normal is boring.