Shitty service

We have a routine, Jeff and I, on Friday nights for the commute up from the city, back to our home along the river. We stop in Middletown, appropriately about a half-way point between us and the city, and do our homo shopping at Lowe’s and Wal-Mart, sometimes venturing to Bed, Bath, & Beyond and the Rag Shop. Then we typically treat ourselves to some fine dining at Wendy’s and head home, truck stuffed with more crap we don’t really need but we’re happy and that’s a good way to end a week and start a weekend. On the off chance we’re tired of Wendy’s, there is a Burger King at the second exit for Middletown (a two-exit town? I know….we’re progressive that way) but on our last occasion to visit there, their utter lack of anything resembling service pissed us both off enough to absolutely swear them off. Forever. And that’s serious.

“Fuckers. We’re never going in there again,” we ranted.
“Never. Ever. Again….and we MEAN it,” we continued.

And so it’s been for the last few months, that we’ll bypass that particular BK with all their shitty service and lazy wait staff , and go directly to Wendy’s or the comic-book store which happens to be close. It’s been working out fine for us in all respects and somewhere, deep in our hearts, we feel our lack of patronage of that Burger King will ultimately contribute to the demise of the franchise and we’ll be vindicated.

Tonight, on the way home, we did our Middletown circuit and stopped for some Wendy’s Biggy Sized Number 2’s but by the time we got on the highway for the last 45-minutes of the ride home, Jeff was shifting uncomfortably and I knew what it was. Let’s say Jeff’s stomach doesn’t do grease well. At all. In fact, we call it, for lack of a better term….um….explosive diarrhea. We’re often lucky to get a warning salvo that means we better find some facilities, pronto. Of course being caught between exit 3 and 4 on I-84 presents its own unique coordination problems. Except tonight.

“Get off on Exit 3. I’m going to go shit at that fucking Burger King we hate.”

“Good idea. In fact, don’t even use the toilet…just blow it over the stall. Show them what bad customer service is all about,” I said. I have a thing about customer service, as in, I expect it. Don’t fuck me over with shitty customer service or I’ll get shitty all over you right back…or at the very least, import someone who can. Literally.

So I dropped him off and zipped over to the comic store to pick up the new issue of the JLA mini-series, Identity Crisis, and drove back to get him.

When he got back in car, paler and lighter, to be sure, I inquired as to the appropriateness of stopping at the Hated BK.

“This was TOTALLY the right thing to do,” he said. Not only do I feel better, but I feel better. Which really, what more can you ask?