An Open Letter to Ronald M.

Dear Ronald,

It is with much sadness I must tell you, our relationship is over.

Yes, I can no longer eat at your fine chain of dining establishments.

It's not that I don't like your food. Your coffee is legendary, the apple pies totally tasty, and every so often I need a dose of the grease that is a quarter pounder to get things moving, if you know what I mean.

And I think you do.

So why am I ending our relationship?

No, it's not another new year's resolution of better eating. I know the occasional greaseburger in and amongst itself isn't going to kill me.

You see, around eight this morning, at your fine dining establishment at the intersection of Salt-Springs Road and US Route 422 in Mineral Ridge, Ohio, I had an eye-opening experience when I stopped to get a coffee.

The line at the drive-thru was quite long, but there was only one person inside at the counter, so I parked and went in.

Yes, like most relationships, when you open that door unexpectedly, sometimes what you see will change your whole outlook on the relationship.

As I stood at the counter waiting to order my coffee, I was looking over the menu trying to figure out what would go well with the coffee. What was I hungry for? A McGriddle? An Egg McMuffin? Perhaps even a Sausage Biscuit.

Then it all went downhill, fast.

One of the managers (I could tell by the white shirt she was wearing) in the food prep area walked away from the breakfast-sandwich building counter to spit a big loogie into a trash can - right next to the fry-a-lator.

Seeing that someone who was about to make the food I was planning on eating is sick will do wonders to cure your appetite. However, that's why I'm breaking up with you.

As I stood there, still kind of shocked to have seen someone in the food prep area of a restaurant spit into a trash can, the inbred and/or retarded looking fry-a-lator girl pulled a rack of hash browns out of the grease. As they dripped dry, she grabbed another rack from the stack behind the trash can the white-shirted manager just spit into, and put it into the holder to load up with more frozen potato goodness.

Apparently that much physical activity caused her some sort of wardrobe malfunction.

She stopped, and reached into the one-size-fits-most elastic-waisted black stretch pants issued by your fine corporation (I could tell by the Golden Arch logo on the ass) to tuck the one-size-fits-most 2x maroon shirt back into place.

I worked fast food, for that big-headed guy they call the King. I know you're not friends, but you have a lot of things in common. Bad fitting uniforms are high on the list. I know that the uniforms he gives, as well as yours, are not only made of the cheapest material available to third-world sweatshops, they're ill-fitting as well.

And I've worked in advertising, too, and I know that you use actors in your commercials, because I've not seen an attractive person over the age of 18 working at any of your establishments in my lifetime.

The closest the fry-a-lator hash brown woman will come to a McDonald's commercial is if she stands next to the television when one is broadcast. I'm not talking about her looks - I'm just talking body shape. She is high waisted and short-torsoed with a lumpy ass, a lumpy belly, but not a lumpy chest.

No, that's not an insult. For the record, I'm one of the few white guys in the world who will admit I like pear-shaped women with big asses.

But back to fry-a-lator girl.

Because of her odd body shape, the ill-fitting, one-size-fits-most shirt was extra big on her, and hanging well below the waist, in both the front and back.

That, my large-footed, red-haired friend, is not a guess.

I know this is fact because I watched her reach down to about mid-thigh on both the front the front and back of her pants, adjusting the shirt.

Bare handed.

When she was finished - and that whole process took about 30 seconds and included her smoothing the ass area of her pants from inside her pants - she then turned back to the fry-a-lator.

And with the same hands she just had down the front - and back - of her one-size-fits-most elastic-waisted black stretch pants, opened the bag of frozen hash browns, reached in the bag and loaded the hash browns in the rack.

Bare handed.

Without washing her hands in the sink right next to the fry-a-lator.

That's why were breaking up.

If I'm going to have a close encounter with the ass area of a woman, it's gonna be on my terms, be my decision, or be the result an involuntary buck of her hips that moves the field of play. It will not be because an inbred/retarded fry-a-lator girl leaves fecal matter on my hash browns.

Good luck in the future.



No comments: