First off, if you work at a fast food place, I apologize in advance for offending you.
Wednesday night is "date night" for the wife and I. We drop our daughter off at the church for the youth meeting, and its a great opportunity to have a nice dinner without having to listen to who beat up who in school, the sales at the local Aeropostle store, and how we are just dying for the twit down the street with the green hair and eye piercings to ask us out.
I normally avoid places like Kentucky Fried Chicken. The food is greasy, the folks who show up for dinner remind me of relatives that I would personally would rather fell head first into the wood chipper, and I like the nice comforts of a table cloth. Without one I am having to constantly having to wipe my face with my shirt, and have found it highly annoying to have small woodland creatures following me around after dinner drooling. Needless to say, KFC just does not believe in table cloths.
But, being the kind and generous husband that I am I let her pick the place, and after quietly reminding me that I had been banned from the nearest Applebees for an event that was far beyond my control, she picked the local KFC for our dinner experience.
At first, I was alright with that. Sometimes dinner is just something to eat, kinda like eating at one of our near relatives who just doesn't understand that the recipe said a DASH of salt, not a DISH of salt. But as the cashier rang up our dinner, I seriously wondered if the whole place was not being run by a platoon of idiots.
As the gal behind the counter was about to swipe my credit card, she got a puzzled look on her face, and asked for my ID. Comparing it to my drivers license, she said, "this is not your credit card. I'm sorry, but we can not accept it." and handed it back.
Reading it myself, I noted that it was under my company name, "Precision Tree Service" and explained that although it did not match my drivers license, I was indeed the owner of the company, and even presented a business card with not only the company name, but mine as well.
"Well, you could have stolen the business card right along with the credit card sir, that is not proof. The name on the card has to match your ID"
"Your right ma'am, I coulda just stole the business card right along with the credit card after playing Jason and whacking his head off with a chainsaw, but how do you account for my name, which matches my drivers license, being on the card as well?"
"Who is Jason? Is he the person that owns this credit card?"
With a sigh, my wife pushed her way in front of me and presented her debit card and her ID, payed for the meal, and shot me a look that obviously said, "Don't ruin tonight, okay?"
I seriously considered protesting. After all, the Betty Boop behind the counter was probably in some way responsible for what is cooked back behind the counter,and I seriously did not want my mashed potatoes to come complete with cell phone parts ala mode just because ole betty didn't realize in her haste to go on a smoke break that she dropped her phone in the pot. But, being the wise man that I am, I recognized the early warning symptoms of "you are going to get it if you start anything in here." look that the wife had going on, and it was gently reinforced with a high heel reminder to my instep.
Limping over to the buffet line, I noted that the line was empty of the grilled chicken, but had plenty of the fried chicken. Motioning to the gal behind the counter mopping up crap on the side tables, I asked if she had any more of the grilled chicken in the back.
"It will be awhile sir, they are making more, but it takes longer to bake than to fry chicken. You can just take some of the fried chicken though and just peel the skin off. Its the same thing."
Right.I forgot the Colonel's secret recipe. Peel the skin off of fried chicken and just call it baked chicken.Hell, you can even charge a bit more for it. Silly me! Resigning myself to my fate of eating fried chicken and staying up all night watching reruns of "Bewitched" in between high speed runs to the bathroom, I decided that I really couldn't take another blow to the instep and took a piece of the fried chicken.
As we ate, I noticed that the pained look was replaced with a relaxed look on the wife's face, and i was relieved. Have ever tried to limp with two sore feet? Made me wonder how i was going to make it even as far as the parking lot if just one more idiot decided they wanted to make one more retarded statement in that place. As I relaxed and my feet came out of hiding from under the bench, i realized that this evening could still be rescued.
We talked a bit, did some planning for our next remodel project, and I could see the dreamy look come over my wife's eyes as she shared a bite from her plate with me. Inwardly I shudder anytime she shoves her fork across the table and begs me to try something from her plate, as nature generally reminds me of years ago when an old girlfriend nearly killed me by shoving a plastic fork down my throat when a bug of some sort ran across her toes as we picnicked by the river front. But being the romantic fool that I am, I recognize the fact that my wife is just being the caring kind of gal that she is, and has long since forgotten any reason to kill me with a plastic fork.
As the third forkful made its way across the table, a shadow fell across our table, and looking up, I realized we were in the company of the manager of the place. Pointing back across his shoulder, he asked, "Lady, do you see that sign over there?"
First off, I don't like strange men coming over and talking to my wife. Its just plain rude in my book. First you address me, and you better call me Sir, then state your reason for interrupting my meal. And if for some reason you really have to address my wife, the first word out of your mouth had better be Ma'am.
Sizing him up, I realized he was nothing but a kid in his early 20's, and probably didn't have proper home training, so I decided to take the conversation over and teach him some manners while finding out what he wanted. "To you, her name is Ma'am, spelled and emphasized with a capital M. My name is Sir, also spelled with a capital S. Now what sign are you talking about?"
Pointing to the buffet again, he read it off for me, "No sharing or carry out of buffet items is permitted". I was stumped. I was still sitting in my seat, so I sure as hell hadn't carried anything out. And who the hell did he think she was sharing the buffet with, the pet rhino in her purse?"
Asking what he meant, he said, "I have been watching your wife sharing her meal with you sir, and that is not permitted." With a laugh, I realized that he had been watching my wife shove food across the table on her fork, and he obviously did not realize that I had also purchased the buffet myself. With a laugh from me and a giggle from the wife, I told him it was okay, I had bought a buffet myself and she was just being lovey is all.
"Sir, that does not matter. Sharing is not permitted."
I get mad easy sometimes, and I guess this is one of them. Already fed up with the way things had gone, my foot hurt, and still steamed about staying up all night I simply asked the guy with a straight face if maybe perhaps he stole his daddy's managers badge and decided to celebrate Halloween a bit early this year and dress up like a manager.
Suffering repeated blows to my knee cap from a well aimed high heel, I waded on. "Kid, you have got to be the biggest idiot I have run across in the past ten years. I payed for a buffet dinner, and it sure as heck doesn't matter what plate it comes off of." Seeing the attention we were drawing from others around us, I decided to take it up a notch. Turning to the guy and his wife seated across from us, I asked him if he was going to eat that friggin roll on his plate. Without a word he handed it over.
Chewing on my roll, I asked him just what is the penalty for eating off of THREE different plates now. With a nervous look around, he then let me know that I really should have to pay for two additional buffet meals. Before I had a chance to even start in on that one, a giggle started in the booth alongside me. Then it carried over to the table on the other side. And before you know it the whole damn place was laughing. The lady behind me asked me if I wanted some of her salad, her husband offered some of his desert and some kid from somewhere stopped by the table and dropped a fresh coke on the table.
Later as I hobbled out to the truck, my wife stopped and gave me kiss on the cheek, and said, "well, it wasn't the most romantic meal we have had in awhile, but when everyone started laughing I just had to laugh myself. How many business cards did you hand out anyway?"
Hell, I gave everyone that I had in my wallet out, and we got invited to a wiener roast for this weekend.
But I only have one question. Kentucky Fried Chicken, how far did have to look to find this many idiots, and why did you pile them all up in one restaurant? You gotta spread them around a bit.
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