I admit it. I hit McDonalds and other fast-food restaurants with some regularity. The frequency rises when I’m traveling. Truth is, I love me some greasy vittles. But nothing ruins a meal in a bag quite like an employee who suddenly decides to make himself useful right at the moment I’m dipping my fry into a ketchup pond or biting into a Big Mac.
He begins by sweeping the floor a few feet away, moving closer and closer to me and my grub. A shark in a grimy visor, he circles me, kicking up dust, airborne viruses, and God knows what into my nose, my gob, and most importantly, my food.
Excuse me, annoyee of the month, could you perhaps wait until I leave? Could you sweep over there by the empty booths?
If not, I’m going to have it my way. I’m going to flip your broom and shove the handle up your bum, turning you into a mystery-meat puppet who I can point in the direction of the deep-fat fryer so you can fetch me a chicken pot pie, or at least a fresh order of fries. Hold the dust.