Don't look down your nose at me burger pimp!

I am not a fan of fast food. It tends to be toward the kind of rough, chewy, hard to swallow greasiness, that a food product can only achieve through hours upon hours beneath a heating lamp. The bowel irregularity alone justifies my dislike for fast food. Of course there are the children, running about the place, crying, touching things with their filth encrusted child hands, ensuring that if you want ketchup from the dispenser, you better want it bad enough to contract bubonic plague, horrible snotty nosed death merchants. Then you have the decor, how much testing did these fast food companies need to go through to find that shade of yellow they use on their walls? You know the one, if you stare at it for over three seconds it makes you feel like your retinas are trying to burn their way out of your skull with a blow torch and four gallons of pure french syphilis . The booths are made for someone just under the national average for height and weight, which is a bit sadistic, considering the average size of the fast food cliental would make William (Refridgerator) Perry look waifish. All these things aside, somedays I do get an urge to abuse my body with some sort of high fructose, saturated fat laden pig swill, mabye deep fried in some sort of hydrogenated oil, ensuring that long after my body is dust, a part of my cheeseburger will still exist. You see what I am getting at? These places are bad enough to visit and last time I went to a fasty, (I claim this phrase, Fasty: American slang; A fast food restaurant) I got attitude from the counter person. Not that that was an isolated event, not at all, five of the eight visits I took last year started with someone in a paper hat looking down their greasy nose at me. Did they sense that I wasn't one of them? Should I go in wearing a fat suit and some sort of flannel camoflage next time? I am not one for social orders ladies and gents, really, I would like a world where we are all equals, no social hierarchy of any kind. That is, unless you work at a fast food joint, then you are my servant, I am you God and you may not look down upon me lest I smite you and burn you to the soles of your lardaceous shoes. What could you possibly do to me anyway? Spit in my food? Oh no, please don't improve the taste of my McCrap sandwich! Even rubbing the food on the floor might improve it's flavor and health value, who knows, may even scrape up some penicilin to stave off the coming stomach infection. Of course this is all absurdity, I don't believe any one of us is better than any other. All of us are equals, each one of us a perfect snowflake, beautiful but different in our own ways and if you believe what I am saying, I have a red hot steel spike I'd like to sell you that would make a lovely chair. I do not care who designed your outfits, they still look like something that was just, slightly too gawdy for the mormon tabernacle choir to wear in their christmas pageant. No one on the planet is interested in who you are going to be one day or what you are going to do. If one day you save the planet from total destruction using technology you designed while on breaks at your high school burger flipping job, no one cares. Right now you are a counter worker at a fast food restaurant, I had a craving for something horrible, mabye because that chicken nugget I had last year finally worked its way out of my system and I was having DTs. Whatever the reason, I am at your counter, I want an unhealthy thing, I am ashamed of the fact that it takes me more than one minute to decide what I want, because it all tastes the same anyway. Just smile politely, ask what I would like, be patient, allow me to order and above all don't be aloof to me. That could make me angry and lately I am pretty sure I have gained the ability to melt people with my mind.