Don'cha Know

So I’m heading in to McDonald’s, already salivating at the thought of a hot, peppery chicken breast on a flaky, buttery biscuit (great – now I’m hungry), and I find myself in line behind some Midwestern morons. How do I know they’re Midwestern? They all have that Frances McDormand Marge Gunderson “Oh do ya, now?” accent. How do I know they’re morons? Heh.

First of all, they’re dressed identically. Grampy and Grammy, Dad, Mom, and Junior are all wearing maroon nylon jogging suits. Just appearing in public like that makes me automatically knock several standard deviations off your acuity gauge. Now, I understand that some people like to coordinate outfits if they’re going to some large tourist attraction, so as to more easily spot their families in the crush, but McDonald’s just ain’t that crowded, folks. If you’re losing track of each other inside that 35-foot land zeppelin you disembarked from, maybe you shouldn’t be out on our scenic highways and byways, hmmm?

Clue #2 that these people are dragging their knuckles along on the left side of the Bell curve is the fact that they have to ponder the menu. It’s McDonald’s, idiots. It’s the same menu here as it is in Minot. That’s sort of the whole point of franchising; they want you to be able to get your favorite artery-clogging comestibles wherever you go. It’s a security thing, dig? To paraphrase Neal Stephenson, “No surprises” is the unofficial motto of every franchise, so it shouldn’t be that difficult a transaction. Oh, and don’t wait ‘til the till pops open, and then try to change your order. The automaton behind the register doesn’t have the freedom to fix it solomente. He’s going to have to flag down the manager, who is signing for deliveries, fixing the time clock, and doing inventory. All this in addition to shouldering the load of the two people that failed to show. That means that the whole system crashes to a halt because you suddenly realized that iced coffee was available as an option. One would’ve thought that the big banners outside, the centerpiece on the menu board, and the signs affixed to each register would’ve clued you in before now. I’m guessing that your contributions to the total mental capacity of society are past their expiration date. Appreciate it, but feel free to wait for the wolves on the hill as the industrial collective drives on.

Third sign is that after they place their order, they stay planted. All five of them hogging the prime real estate in front of the cashier. Break it up, people. This isn’t some rugby scrum, and nobody’s gonna make off with your hash browns and senior coffees. Leave Dad to handle the transport issues with the tray, let Mom acquire the creamers, napkins, and other gustatory accoutrements, and send the elders off with Junior to secure seating. If you really are headed to some merriment Mecca, you aren’t going to last fifteen minutes. You need to be able to exhibit the same situational awareness and tactical adaptability as your average SEAL team making a daylight incursion behind enemy lines to blow a bridge. Otherwise, the only thing those snazzy outfits are good for is to help the coroner figure out who belongs together. This is America, and we take our leisure activities very seriously. You create a bottleneck at the entrance to Whitewater Canyon because you can’t decide whether to go left to Boring History Lodge or right to Plastic People Marketing Overkill Village, and you will be ground into the pavement so hard, the forensics team won’t be able to differentiate between your molars and the antique pearls on Grammy’s necklace.

Otherwise, enjoy your trip.