FILTHY FUCKING CHEESEBURGER
Crazy things happen to sane people. What can I say? Bad things happen to good people and bad people happen to good things. The universe is paradox. Why? Ask God. Tell me what he says. In the meantime let us marvel in this wonderful aspect of the quasi-random series of adventures Douglas Adams called Liff.
I'll start!
(I guess I better. It's my fuckin' blog.)
Tonight, not but three hours ago. I left the bar just a little before last call so I could pick up a six at the gas station. As I exit the gas station I spy a Hardees. I fuckin' hate hardees. I also fuckin
hate the drunk munchies, especially because the drunk munchies can only be satisfied by the nastiest, greasiest, most vomiting-inducing-to-look-at stack of processed animal shavings one can find on the poisoned streets of Feed-Me-Fast-Food-Fucker-Feed-Me, U.S.A. Tonight closest such slop happened to be Hardees.
I walk up to the little fucking drive through speaker thing and scream into it "I WANT A FILTHY FUCKING CHEESEBURGER, PLEASE!" No response. I repeat my request. The abyss within the little fucking drive through speaker thing gazed back at me as no one continued to ask if I wanted that in a double filthy value combo grease meal. It then occurred to me that I had tried this on a previous occasion and had been told by the Hardees staff that they would no longer accept walk up orders at the drive through, but I'd never imagined that they were serious. I mean, what? They only serve people who have five dollars AND a car at certain times of the day? Fuck you, I want my filthy cheeseburger. I thought of walking up to the window and expressing some such sentiment to the staff but I decided that that probably wouldn't get me fed either. So I sad fuck it and started walking home.
I'm not half way out of the parking lot when the guys in the car that had just pulled up behind me yell out to me. They understand my prediciment, they say. They don't even half to ask. They have a car, they say. They are acknowledged by the keepers of the drive through. They want to know if they can place my order for me.
"Thanks, guys." I say.
I lean over into thier passenger side window and scream into the guy's ear, "I WANT A FILTHY FUCKING CHEESEBURGER, PLEASE!"
They place my order for me. I give them a couple of my beers as thanks. Hands are shook. Friends are made. We'll see each other at the bar next time, etc. They get thier order and drive off. I walk up behind, get my filthy fucking cheeseburger and start to walk home.
Now here is the crazy part of the story. And this is crazy mostly because I live in Columbia, Missouri which is, statistically one of the top ten safest places in the continental U.S. a human can live. People who live in New York, Chicago or Los Angeles are probably going to go 'pish' when they hear this but, believe me, this doesn't happen in Columbia and not at a Hardees. But when it does happen it happens only to me. And while I may have exagerated for comic effect previously, I assure you, the next bit happened exactly as told.
As I walked away from the drive through the next car in line pulled to the window. The guy in the passenger seat rolled down the window and said, "Hey!"
I stop and look back.
"Whachoo sippin'?" the guy says. As he says this I happen to notice that he has a matte black semi-automatic pistol in his left hand, casually drapped over the window seal like John Travolta in Pulp Fiction just before Marvin gets shot. At a glance it's either a Taurus or a Beretta.
I look down at the remainder of my six pack. "Fat Tire." I say.
"Gimme one a them." he says.
I'm quite drunk at this point, as I try to analyze this little drama which has so quickly unraveled before me. On the one hand getting shot would be a bad end to the evening. On the other I just gave away a third of my beer to some guys I don't even know. On yet another hand, I know guns, I grew up around them and something doesn't look right about this one. And on another hand, well, I don't want to get shot.
"What are you gonna give me for one of these beers?" I ask the guy.
"Your life." he says.
Now, again, I'm not making this up. I don't think I actually said this next part. I think some one else, some ghost of a character in a scene in a Clint Eastwood movie that didn't make the final cut stepped in and picked the one line he thought would most likely get me shot and spoke it through my lips. I seriously doubt I said this on my own, because I'm the farthest thing from a hardass you are likely to meet. Either way, these are the words that came out of my face.
"Shit, I ain't that fond of my life."
And then I walked away.
Halfway home I realized what didn't look right about that guy's pistol. It had the word 'Daisy' stamped down the side of the barrel. That motherfucker tried to mug me for a beer with a damn BB gun.
As soon as I got home I called my kid brother and told him all about it. He was kind enough to tell me that, even if it was a BB gun, that guy could've put my eye out and that I needn't feel bad for shitting myself and crying like a sissy-girl on the floor of my bathroom, which I DIDN'T DO!
Little fucker.
I was totally cool the whole time. I was!
And you know what. That filthy fucking cheeseburger tasted like sirloin. Hell, it's only 4 AM now. Maybe I'll go back for another.
I'll start!
(I guess I better. It's my fuckin' blog.)
Tonight, not but three hours ago. I left the bar just a little before last call so I could pick up a six at the gas station. As I exit the gas station I spy a Hardees. I fuckin' hate hardees. I also fuckin
hate the drunk munchies, especially because the drunk munchies can only be satisfied by the nastiest, greasiest, most vomiting-inducing-to-look-at stack of processed animal shavings one can find on the poisoned streets of Feed-Me-Fast-Food-Fucker-Feed-Me, U.S.A. Tonight closest such slop happened to be Hardees.
I walk up to the little fucking drive through speaker thing and scream into it "I WANT A FILTHY FUCKING CHEESEBURGER, PLEASE!" No response. I repeat my request. The abyss within the little fucking drive through speaker thing gazed back at me as no one continued to ask if I wanted that in a double filthy value combo grease meal. It then occurred to me that I had tried this on a previous occasion and had been told by the Hardees staff that they would no longer accept walk up orders at the drive through, but I'd never imagined that they were serious. I mean, what? They only serve people who have five dollars AND a car at certain times of the day? Fuck you, I want my filthy cheeseburger. I thought of walking up to the window and expressing some such sentiment to the staff but I decided that that probably wouldn't get me fed either. So I sad fuck it and started walking home.
I'm not half way out of the parking lot when the guys in the car that had just pulled up behind me yell out to me. They understand my prediciment, they say. They don't even half to ask. They have a car, they say. They are acknowledged by the keepers of the drive through. They want to know if they can place my order for me.
"Thanks, guys." I say.
I lean over into thier passenger side window and scream into the guy's ear, "I WANT A FILTHY FUCKING CHEESEBURGER, PLEASE!"
They place my order for me. I give them a couple of my beers as thanks. Hands are shook. Friends are made. We'll see each other at the bar next time, etc. They get thier order and drive off. I walk up behind, get my filthy fucking cheeseburger and start to walk home.
Now here is the crazy part of the story. And this is crazy mostly because I live in Columbia, Missouri which is, statistically one of the top ten safest places in the continental U.S. a human can live. People who live in New York, Chicago or Los Angeles are probably going to go 'pish' when they hear this but, believe me, this doesn't happen in Columbia and not at a Hardees. But when it does happen it happens only to me. And while I may have exagerated for comic effect previously, I assure you, the next bit happened exactly as told.
As I walked away from the drive through the next car in line pulled to the window. The guy in the passenger seat rolled down the window and said, "Hey!"
I stop and look back.
"Whachoo sippin'?" the guy says. As he says this I happen to notice that he has a matte black semi-automatic pistol in his left hand, casually drapped over the window seal like John Travolta in Pulp Fiction just before Marvin gets shot. At a glance it's either a Taurus or a Beretta.
I look down at the remainder of my six pack. "Fat Tire." I say.
"Gimme one a them." he says.
I'm quite drunk at this point, as I try to analyze this little drama which has so quickly unraveled before me. On the one hand getting shot would be a bad end to the evening. On the other I just gave away a third of my beer to some guys I don't even know. On yet another hand, I know guns, I grew up around them and something doesn't look right about this one. And on another hand, well, I don't want to get shot.
"What are you gonna give me for one of these beers?" I ask the guy.
"Your life." he says.
Now, again, I'm not making this up. I don't think I actually said this next part. I think some one else, some ghost of a character in a scene in a Clint Eastwood movie that didn't make the final cut stepped in and picked the one line he thought would most likely get me shot and spoke it through my lips. I seriously doubt I said this on my own, because I'm the farthest thing from a hardass you are likely to meet. Either way, these are the words that came out of my face.
"Shit, I ain't that fond of my life."
And then I walked away.
Halfway home I realized what didn't look right about that guy's pistol. It had the word 'Daisy' stamped down the side of the barrel. That motherfucker tried to mug me for a beer with a damn BB gun.
As soon as I got home I called my kid brother and told him all about it. He was kind enough to tell me that, even if it was a BB gun, that guy could've put my eye out and that I needn't feel bad for shitting myself and crying like a sissy-girl on the floor of my bathroom, which I DIDN'T DO!
Little fucker.
I was totally cool the whole time. I was!
And you know what. That filthy fucking cheeseburger tasted like sirloin. Hell, it's only 4 AM now. Maybe I'll go back for another.
posted by Louis at 2:22 AM
5 Comments:
Interestingly enough, I too, have once lived in Columbia, MO. I KNOW the cat that owns that Daisy. Furthermore, I know YOU Doerflinger. How many snipits of movies did you plan on stealing from before calling it a night?? Instead of "Daisy"...perhaps you could have called the gun a "replica" and actually given props to the film Snatch. You suck, and you haven't had an original thought since 1989. Much love Doerflinger. Much love.
What the fuck??? 4am?? You posted that shit at 2:22am fucker. The Internet records everything.
I love your writings. And I actually believe you!! I know you would never lie! I know you better than anyone else! Of course I believe someone taught you not to swear so much!
How sad that you had your mother review your site and post a sweet little email countering mine. For the love of Pete...cut the strings my fat friend! HA!
A Poem
...and the brave cheeseburger man came over the hill/with a filthy cheeseburger and a five dollar bill/and behind him the daisy-trigger-man with a gleem in his eyes that said he would kill.
...and the brave cheeseburger man looked the daisy man in the eye/and the daisy man said, "reach for the sky/giime a beer or die"/ and the brave cheeseburger man said, "if you wanna drink you gotta buy"/ and the daisy man said, "I'm not a buyin' kinda guy/but you'd better give it up or die"
...and the brave cheeseburger man said, "go home and tell it to your dog or your wife/ I'm more fond of beer than I am of my life."
and the daisy-trigger man was flounderin' for somethin' tuh say/ when the brave cheeseburger man just snickered and walked away.
Post a Comment
<< Home