I'll Wipe My Own Ass, Thank You

"...and I'd like it 'Super Sized,' please."

Silence from the PA box. And then: "Uh, sir? We don't offer the Super Size anymore."

"What do you mean, you don't offer the Super Size? Is this McDonald's or not?"

The question was rhetorical. I knew for a fact I was at McDonald's, because I'd driven there in my Hummer for lunch. And I'm not some pill-popping dopehead given to forgetting where he is. Clearly, the same could not be said for the dude working the drive-through this afternoon.

"Yeah, you're at McDonald's," he said. "But like I said, we don't have a Super Size anymore. Just a Large."

"A 'Large?' But I want a Super Size. What happened to the Super Size?"

"We discontinued it. Due to, uh, health concerns."

"Health concerns? Again, is this McDonald's or not?"

"Yeah, man. Like I already said, this is McDonald's. But..."

"But nothing! If I wanted to discuss health concerns, I'd see a doctor. Which I do. Frequently. But when I come to McDonald's, I want a lot of greasy food, served up piping hot, with a gallon of Coke to wash it down. Do I make myself clear?"

"Uh, yeah. But like I said..."

"Look -- the customer is always right, goddammit! And I am the goddamn customer, and I want a goddamn Super Size with my order, and I'm filthy goddamn rich, so gimme what I goddamn want! Now!!!"

Squeaky wheel greased, I was soon in possession of enough food to feed an entire Ethiopian village. Not that it did; I was quite hungry, and finished every bite.