Punchin' the Chicken
Last night at Harry's, Ken brought up the story of the time I punched the chicken in public.
It was 2003ish, and Ken and Codding and I had driven to Dallas to watch some basketball tryouts. We were on our way back home, starving, and popped into a Wendy's somewhere north of Dallas.
Ken and Codding were in front of me, placed their orders, and got their food pretty quickly. They went to sit down. I was not so lucky.
The cashier spoke very little English, and my request was a slight challenge but nothing too complicated...
I waited and waited a while other people came through and ordered and got their food. A meal finally appeared that went unclaimed, but it was not mine. After a few minutes of no one claiming it, I asked about the status of my order and they pointed to the order that had been sitting unclaimed.
Somehow, my sandwich request had translated as "hamburger".
I repeated my order and they took the hamburger away, soon returning with the "correction."
Now I had two cheeseburgers.
I explained once again what I had ordered, very slowly and distinctly. They insisted that somehow the two cheeseburgers they had given me fulfilled that request. I re-explained and with puzzled looks they took the two cheeseburgers away.
After a few more minutes they returned with a fully-loaded cheeseburger and a bowl of chili.
Now I was begining to get angry, and I repeated my order yet again. They returned with a plain hamburger.
Trying very hard to keep my cool but boiling over with frustration, I reached into my pocket for a pen, grabbed a napkin, and drew a sketch much like the following to make it crystal clear what I wanted them to do:
The cashier and the manager both studied the note and disappeared around the corner. Minutes later they returned and finally had it right!
Of course by now my fries were cold, my Frosty had melted, and Ken and Codding were done eating and ready to leave.
I sat down and unwrapped my sandwich in eager anticipation. But just as I was about to take a bite, something amiss caught my eye. I spotted a glimmer of orange.
The bastards had put American cheese instead of pepper jack on my sandwich.
A minor oversight, but after what I had been through it pushed me over the edge.
A stunned silence broke across the dining area and Ken and Codding looked on in horror as I made a fist and punched my chicken sandwich repeatedly. I then balled it up, said "let's go", stomed across the room, and threw the balled-up punched chicken at the trash bin.
About half an hour later we stopped at a Whataburger so that I could get something to eat.
To this day I regret my actions at that Wendy's, saddened by the fact that that poor chicken died in vain.