Angel in the Drive Through Window
“What can I get you today sir?”
He’s staring at me, the moron, with his blue hat and yellow name tag. His teeth look like he wore a crooked retainer for a decade or two. His eyes resemble the mouse I found dead in my apartment this morning. I wonder how close his genetics are to that of a rodent compared to myself. Probably a lot closer; after all, I don’t look nearly that odd.
Why is he staring at me with that goofy smile? It’s as if he doesn’t recognize the fact that he looks like a rodent and I do not. I imagine him crawling into a human sized mouse trap. SNAP. It shuts onto his back, and he squirms for a moment before accepting his death.
“Sir?” the voice in the intercom says. I realize I’ve been staring into my dashboard, parked next to the sign at Wendy’s with the menu on it. There’s a line of cars behind me.
I can’t see this voice from the intercom, but I bet he looks like a rodent.
“I’ll have the most expensive thing on the menu, please.”
“Excuse me?” The miserable mouse responds with a squeak in his voice that makes me momentarily sympathize with every mass murderer who ever lived.
“The. Most. Expensive. Thing. On. The. Menu,” I repeat with a vehemence in my voice that I’m sure caused him to evacuate his bowels right into that dumb looking uniform of his.
“That would be the Baconator combo, sir-”
Right at the exact moment he gets his last word in, I yell out “Yes that’s correct”.
The car behind me honks its horn, and the guy driving it sticks his hand out the window in a manner that says “what gives?”
I imagine the car getting crushed by a steamroller in slow motion. I then imagine all the judges from American Idol laughing as they watch the man attempt to climb out of the car while it is being demolished, to no avail.
I wonder what brand of toothpaste Simon Cowell uses.
The car honks again. I lightly press on the gas. I hear my engine working. The man behind me yells something in a heavy accent that I can’t understand but this doesn’t matter as I doubt I wanted to understand whatever it is he had to say anyways.
My crappy grey Sedan from the 90’s moves forward ever so slowly, until I reach the drive through window.
I see a chimpanzee wearing a Wendy’s hat smashing up boxes and plastic utensils, wreaking havoc in the drive through window. I consider calling the police or yelling for help but I am strangely hypnotized by the ape’s behavior. Every few seconds the animal will make this sucking noise with its mouth and jump around maniacally before destroying more supplies.
Suddenly a bug flies into my eye; I swat at my face and rub it out, and this time when I look at the drive through window a beautiful girl is leaning forward, holding my Baconator combo. She has long blonde hair that falls over her chest, like a land mermaid. I make direct eye contact with her and suddenly I feel as though I’ve been dunked in holy water.
“That’ll be $8.09,” she says a couple of feet from my face. I reach into my suit pocket and take out a platinum American Express card. I silently appreciate my engraved name on the card, which reads “Ratchimp Monkeyface.” The angel in the drive through window grasps the card with two fingers, and I notice that her fingernails are each painted with a bright red dot in the middle, like the Japanese flag. She pulls the credit card from my hand into the drive through window and swipes it on the machine.
I want the chimpanzee back.
“Excuse me,” I cry out into the drive through window, leaning my body out of my car. “When will the chimpanzee be returning?”
The angel in the drive through window gives me an odd glance. “The chimpanzee? Didn't you hear? He lost his job. Tax evasion.” I nod understandingly and shed a tear. Such a good ape. Such an awful life.
“Wow, I’ve lost my appetite now,” I yell to the angel in the drive through window. “Why would you tell me that news as I’m about to eat?”
“I’m sorry sir, I thought you knew. He had a risky lifestyle, that one.”
I’ve had enough of this. I gun the engine and drive away, forgetting about my credit card. I won’t need it where I’m going. I keep driving until I find an entrance to the highway. The streets are empty. I’m hitting sixty miles an hour. Seventy. Eighty. Frank Sinatra is booming at top volume inside the car, but my car is worthless, a piece of scrap metal with wheels and an engine. The radio signal is mediocre at best, resulting in a mechanical whine that somewhat resembles the voice of the legendary singer. I curse at this awful vehicle and slam on the radio console with my bare fist until my hand begins to bruise and bleed and the radio dies from the abuse.
I've now hit ninety miles an hour.
There are no other vehicles on the highway until suddenly a motorcycle pulls up next to me. It’s the chimpanzee, he’s wearing the whole Wendy’s uniform, and his speedometer reads 100. He pulls in front of my car and I see him pull out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. He sticks the end of a cigarette into the engine of his motorcycle, lighting it, and takes a long drag on it. What a badass ape. I can only wish to reach his level of style some day. My car is now approaching 100, and I can feel that the body of my car is beginning to shake and rattle: it was not meant to go this fast. The chimpanzee veers his motorcycle off onto an exit ramp, and I wish him a long and prosperous life.
I get off on the next exit without slowing down a bit. A building flies up towards me in my vision. My car collides with a brick wall and within an instant so does my head. The resulting impact causes my brain to---
He’s staring at me, the moron, with his blue hat and yellow name tag. His teeth look like he wore a crooked retainer for a decade or two. His eyes resemble the mouse I found dead in my apartment this morning. I wonder how close his genetics are to that of a rodent compared to myself. Probably a lot closer; after all, I don’t look nearly that odd.
Why is he staring at me with that goofy smile? It’s as if he doesn’t recognize the fact that he looks like a rodent and I do not. I imagine him crawling into a human sized mouse trap. SNAP. It shuts onto his back, and he squirms for a moment before accepting his death.
“Sir?” the voice in the intercom says. I realize I’ve been staring into my dashboard, parked next to the sign at Wendy’s with the menu on it. There’s a line of cars behind me.
I can’t see this voice from the intercom, but I bet he looks like a rodent.
“I’ll have the most expensive thing on the menu, please.”
“Excuse me?” The miserable mouse responds with a squeak in his voice that makes me momentarily sympathize with every mass murderer who ever lived.
“The. Most. Expensive. Thing. On. The. Menu,” I repeat with a vehemence in my voice that I’m sure caused him to evacuate his bowels right into that dumb looking uniform of his.
“That would be the Baconator combo, sir-”
Right at the exact moment he gets his last word in, I yell out “Yes that’s correct”.
The car behind me honks its horn, and the guy driving it sticks his hand out the window in a manner that says “what gives?”
I imagine the car getting crushed by a steamroller in slow motion. I then imagine all the judges from American Idol laughing as they watch the man attempt to climb out of the car while it is being demolished, to no avail.
I wonder what brand of toothpaste Simon Cowell uses.
The car honks again. I lightly press on the gas. I hear my engine working. The man behind me yells something in a heavy accent that I can’t understand but this doesn’t matter as I doubt I wanted to understand whatever it is he had to say anyways.
My crappy grey Sedan from the 90’s moves forward ever so slowly, until I reach the drive through window.
I see a chimpanzee wearing a Wendy’s hat smashing up boxes and plastic utensils, wreaking havoc in the drive through window. I consider calling the police or yelling for help but I am strangely hypnotized by the ape’s behavior. Every few seconds the animal will make this sucking noise with its mouth and jump around maniacally before destroying more supplies.
Suddenly a bug flies into my eye; I swat at my face and rub it out, and this time when I look at the drive through window a beautiful girl is leaning forward, holding my Baconator combo. She has long blonde hair that falls over her chest, like a land mermaid. I make direct eye contact with her and suddenly I feel as though I’ve been dunked in holy water.
“That’ll be $8.09,” she says a couple of feet from my face. I reach into my suit pocket and take out a platinum American Express card. I silently appreciate my engraved name on the card, which reads “Ratchimp Monkeyface.” The angel in the drive through window grasps the card with two fingers, and I notice that her fingernails are each painted with a bright red dot in the middle, like the Japanese flag. She pulls the credit card from my hand into the drive through window and swipes it on the machine.
I want the chimpanzee back.
“Excuse me,” I cry out into the drive through window, leaning my body out of my car. “When will the chimpanzee be returning?”
The angel in the drive through window gives me an odd glance. “The chimpanzee? Didn't you hear? He lost his job. Tax evasion.” I nod understandingly and shed a tear. Such a good ape. Such an awful life.
“Wow, I’ve lost my appetite now,” I yell to the angel in the drive through window. “Why would you tell me that news as I’m about to eat?”
“I’m sorry sir, I thought you knew. He had a risky lifestyle, that one.”
I’ve had enough of this. I gun the engine and drive away, forgetting about my credit card. I won’t need it where I’m going. I keep driving until I find an entrance to the highway. The streets are empty. I’m hitting sixty miles an hour. Seventy. Eighty. Frank Sinatra is booming at top volume inside the car, but my car is worthless, a piece of scrap metal with wheels and an engine. The radio signal is mediocre at best, resulting in a mechanical whine that somewhat resembles the voice of the legendary singer. I curse at this awful vehicle and slam on the radio console with my bare fist until my hand begins to bruise and bleed and the radio dies from the abuse.
I've now hit ninety miles an hour.
There are no other vehicles on the highway until suddenly a motorcycle pulls up next to me. It’s the chimpanzee, he’s wearing the whole Wendy’s uniform, and his speedometer reads 100. He pulls in front of my car and I see him pull out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. He sticks the end of a cigarette into the engine of his motorcycle, lighting it, and takes a long drag on it. What a badass ape. I can only wish to reach his level of style some day. My car is now approaching 100, and I can feel that the body of my car is beginning to shake and rattle: it was not meant to go this fast. The chimpanzee veers his motorcycle off onto an exit ramp, and I wish him a long and prosperous life.
I get off on the next exit without slowing down a bit. A building flies up towards me in my vision. My car collides with a brick wall and within an instant so does my head. The resulting impact causes my brain to---