A drive-through at a fast food restaurant is designed for an order similar to, “I’ll take a number seven, thanks.” If your order has to begin with a question like, “Can you tell me how that is prepared?” then you probably should not be in the drive-through.
A hefty man was in the drive-through the other day, so enormous that he occupied both sides of the front seat in his manly man pick-up truck, who uttered from his mumbling mouth misplaced somewhere in his giant weird beard, “I want a cheeseburg with absolutely no lettuce and an extra thuck milkshuck.” The teller explained that the “milkshucks” came out of a machine and their consistency in regard to “thuckness” is not controlled. And so, the negotiations began. This man, actually a vitrine of human debris, wanted to know if the “milkshuck” could be filled half-way and then completed with dumping soft serve ice-cream into the cup. How caustic it is that the lettuce, the one component of the “cheeseburg” with even a modicum of healthiness, is the one he absolutely refused. The bottom line here is, if you plan on ordering a smorgasbord, get your lazy ass out of the car and go in.
A drive-through at a bank is designed for a request similar to, “I would like to cash this check please.” If you are planning to apply for a second mortgage on your house, maybe you should not be in the drive-through.
A prissy woman from the local high-end suburb was in the bank drive-through one day. She was frustrated that a transfer from one account to another, which she apparently did online, was not showing up in her checking account. I cut her some slack at first because she had a nice set of perkies that she displayed while leaning out the side door window. However, it wasn’t long before she became hostile toward the teller and then even the charm of her hoisted breasts began to wane. In an exasperated manner she asked if she could speak to an account manager who “knew what was going on.” Well, the answer is “yes.” The bottom line here is, if you need to talk to an upper tier account manager about an online transfer from who knows where, get your lazy ass out of the car and go in.
A drive through at a funeral home is designed for pulling up and saying, “Gee, sure am sorry about Fred.” At that point we pay our respects, drop a card in the slot, and go on our way. If you are planning an Academy Award deserving display of grief, you probably should not be in the drive-through.
While the prissy woman was bitching in the bank drive-through, verb appropriate for the subject, yowls of “Why? Why? Why?” were swirling from somewhere overhead. Now, it could have been presumed that someone like me was in the bank line asking God why He had sent the prissy woman to get in front of him and make his life miserable. In actuality, however, the cries were coming from the funeral home drive-through next door to the bank in which someone had decided to transmute the display window into a wailing wall. No doubt the occupants of a long line beginning to form at the funeral home drive-through were wishing that this particular bereaved individual would just drop dead. The bottom line here is, if you need to go into convulsions mourning someone who you probably never so much as sent a Christmas card to, get your lazy ass out of the car and go in.