How about a Cymbalta Cheeseburger?

Today, I was at a total loss on where to grab something for lunch. I went over to this new-ish mall where they have the crappiest places to eat -- Tin Drum (stinks), Doc Green's (unimpressive), Boneheads (fish), Applebees (nuff said). Anyway, the sign for Cheeseburger in Paradise caught my eye. I blame the baby's control over my appetite. Just say cheeseburger and I start having minor contractions. Hamburglar Contractions.

I went in and perused the menu -- I chose something called the pressed burger and in a nod to actual nutrition, took them up on the offer of turkey instead of beef. Heck, it came with Velveeta, so it's not like I am a saint or anything.

First it took the pimply kid like 15 minutes to find it on the computerized ordering screen. I could plainly see the "Pressed Burger" button from 15 feet away, but he kept moving back and forth through the screens, scratching his greasy head. Finally I pointed it out. Then I pointed out that he forgot to hit the "Turkey override" button.

I should've cancelled right then and walked out.

Then they couldn't locate a pen for me to sign my credit card receipt. Another 5 minutes. I ask the kid how long the place has been open  and he says, "since 11 this morning." I explain that I thought maybe this was their first week open. He replies, "Oh, we've been open like a year and half. But our manager... Gus... he's well, Gus." Like that explains it.

By now the smell of the place is getting to me -- it was like a cocktail of hospital waiting area, polyurethane, fake sand, and a splash of broken dreams. And the Jimmy Buffett tunes aren't helping at all. I'm slipping into a major depression. I say to myself, "If three songs go by and my food doesn't come up, I'll cancel the order and leave." I can't help brooding about how disgusting my burger is going to be. I literally feel the tears coming.

Then he rounds the corner with my lunch in a giant paper bag, emblazoned with "Paradise to Go! Cheeseburger in Paradise" in pink and blue. It's like a badge of shame. How am I going to shuffle back into the office, pregnant and on the verge of tears, with this enormous sack that basically says, "I don't give a shit about this baby."

Luckily, no one was around when I came in the lobby and no one was in the breakroom. I ate most of the puck-like burger and no one was the wiser. But the malaise hasn't lifted.

Comments

[Sam]

Could you do an audio version of this please? You are so funny Al, I've read this over and over again to Steven, trying to channel you, and i just can't do it. sniff.

[Chimp]

I'd try, but now that the depression has passed, I don't think I could capture it. I do want to try podcasting though. I need to look in to it. I like hearing your voice on your site! I think you should get Steven to do some audio too since his accent makes me happy inside.