Jake just found some ancient archived material from "Incoherent Rage," my old blog-within-a-blog at Mighty Middle.

(WARNING: regrettable language ahead.)

I have a personal note for the driver of the gray mini-van at Hardee's drive-thru this morning. (Oh, you know who you are.) Dear van driver: you don't spend five minutes perusing the goddamned menu. It's fucking Hardees, it's not Alain fucking Ducasse. It's not Charlie fucking Trotter. This is not the French Laundry or Citronelle or fucking Taillevent, this is fucking Hardees. It's all fatty, gummy, oversalted goo, what the fuck are you holding out for? You figure if you look long enough you'll find a goddamned omelet aux fine herbes? You think Combo #9 is poached eggs on toasted brioche topped with creme fraiche and a dollop of beluga? It's all crap, you imbecile, it's all the same, just pick your heart atttack and move the fuck on.

Here is the rule: you have PRECISELY eight seconds to place an order for one person. You get an additional five seconds for each additional order. This is not optional. I am telling you. This is now the law. Eight seconds for one person, thirteen seconds for two, up to the maximum of twenty-three seconds for four people. More than four people? Park, and go into the fucking restaurant because seriously, honest-to-God, I can, by straining every nerve in my body, give you twenty-three seconds.. But that's it. At twenty-four seconds I deploy the horn. Twenty-six seconds you get the angry bald man gesticulating in your rear view mirror. At thirty seconds I can no longer be responsible for my actions.

And by the way, have your goddamned money ready. Yes, of course I know that the fast food speaker box told you it would cost "hrs hnnh nn hihnhee hen." I understand that it's hard to figure out the precise dollar amount when you're dealing with an employee who sounds like a Spanish stroke victim talking with an eight inch kielbasa in her mouth, but that's no excuse. If it's one person, pull out a five. Two people, have a ten spot ready. More, then go with a twenty. And if it's more than twenty bucks, man, you need to sit down and take a good hard look at your sad fucking life.

Do not, repeat, DO NOT use a credit card. I am serious about this. Let me explain something, you thoughtless van-sitting s.o.b., there is a moral imperative that binds all of civilization together. There have been many theories on this, stretching back to Plato. Every philospher has weighed in on the question of what, precisely, we owe our fellow human beings. How are we to hold civilization together? Some, when facing this question, ask What Would Jesus Do?

Well, I'll tell you what Jesus would do: he'd have his fucking money out. And he wouldn't be pulling out his fucking Mastercard unless he was looking to give Mel Gibson material for a sequel. If you know what I mean. So, rather than ask, What Would Jesus Do, (WWJD) I want all of you out there on the great highway of life to ask, Am I In Michael's Way. AIIMW. There's your damned moral imperative, you inconsiderate, van-driving barnyard animal. If we all live the AIIMW ethic, we have civilization. Without it? Screaming bald guys. Nothing but screaming bald guys.

Thank you.

This entry was posted by Michael Reynolds, on Friday, August 29, 2008. You can leave your response.