“My name’s not Paul.” I exclaimed as the not quite special needs fast food employee who demands to be paid twelve dollars an hour hands me my bag of cold probably inedible, for reasons unknown, we shall describe as consumable food. My less than enjoyable future excruciating flatulent explosion is in its less than pristine state of affairs having been placed near my person while the previously mentioned Rhodes Scholar of culinary debauchery called out for who I figured was another brain dead member of the human race that I have yet to cross paths with.
“Paul…Paul…Paul?” she delivered oratory in a rather semi-uneducated cadence usually reserved for inbred mountain folk as inadequately portrayed in really bad movies that are extremely isolated from the Oscar nominations. Perplexed she finally called out the actual order number in fear and desperation of not wanting to kill the stray dog behind this grand establishment of putrefied horrors by giving that poor bastard the food intended for my gastric assassination.
To my utter amazement and my keen sense of deduction, I realized it was actually my order number that the burger joint imbecile was feverously trying to be rid of. She looked at me with the disdain that is usually reserved for me by my less than appreciative pet feline whose life I had saved from an eternity of caged kitty litter hell and also thinks I was purposely put on this Earth to kill her because she just cannot have that extra brain cell that allows her to realize that I feed her and, as she sees it, steal her feces from the litter box.
So here we are. We’ve come full circle. My revelation of the fact that I am indeed not Paul, as I was not aware was printed on the receipt, was received with a less than enthusiastic and inevitable “Whatever”. Thus ending my unsuccessful expedition into the almost predictable experience of what I regard as customer service in the United States, a First World problem indeed.