PureVolume

Short order By Don Eminizer

The second I made the decision I knew it was over, the finality of it settled in, and a serene, easy calmness descended upon me. In for a pound, in for some gene pool cleansing, this was it, all or nothing. I ordered a big-ass burger. I even super sized it, too. What do I have to lose anyway, really?

Life is only so long, you might as well take the special sauce while you can.

"You know that eating this burger sentences you to hell, right?" The pimply faced, pointy hatted teenager croaks as he hands me my change.

Kids.

"I think we all know that happened when I was born." I smile as I pull to the next window.

The next dumb kid hands me a sweaty cup, a straw, four napkins, some apostles, and a player to be named later, but no fricking drink carrier. Is it too much to ask for a fricking drink carrier every time you hit the damned drive through window? REALLY. I mean, Fer the love of God, four drinks, two hands, one wheel? Do the math.

So I pull out of the entrance with the arrow pointing the other way. Oops. I'd think I was an ass if I was somebody else but I'm not so it's cool.

What do I care anymore? I just ordered a juicy artery-clogging-heart-mortaring-may-not-see-the-morrow meal anyway, with cheese. I'll get high on the cholesterol for decades.

I cross four lanes mid-speed at noon on Friday-- first of the month. This is more dangerous than it sounds, as every other car is a fossilized Lincoln casket carrying old cranky timeless working stiffs on permanent vacation out shopping on pension day, and every other car carries some kid who just got paid on his way to try and get out of work so he can attempt to get lucky.

I make it home in one piece ten minutes ahead of schedule, j-u-s-t beating my funeral out by a couple of minutes.

I see they forgot to put the toy in the happy meal. Joy. God bless the happy meal, it makes kids materialistic and shallow while they're still singing Barney ditties. It starts them off right and wrong at the same time. Oh, and God help the guy that ever invented the happy meal if he ever crosses my path. I'll insert nickel priced toys by the handful into his rectum until his eyes bleed plastic mannequins of fuzzy characters from stupid kid movies with stickers in little plastic baggies. Amid all the screams and laments and wails and complaints-- my wife is loud-- my course becomes clear to me.

So back I go. I'll spend $10 in gasoline and 30 minutes of my life on a stupid toy that I could buy for a dime.

Hell isn't some destination in the afterlife. It's served fifty billion times a day in a toy-less TV dinner prepared in a building buried beneath golden arches across a four lane highway filled with cars full of people with nothing better to do.

I get back after the ten minute argument with the 10 watt manager over the ten cent toy. The police should be coming any minute now. Ill give the guy his teeth back, I swear. I hand my son the little stupid plastic doll, proud, in my fine hunter-gatherer fashion. His eyes get big as he spies the toy. Maybe this nightmare was worth all the fuss after all.

My son shrugs and throws the toy in the trash.

I already have that one Dad.