I will never understand the attitude people give towards the people who make their food.

Maybe it is because I have worked in several different areas of customer service, maybe it is because I was raised in a more service-person-friendly atmosphere or perhaps it is because I’m not a rage-filled ass, but for what ever reason I have the utmost respect for the people who get paid minimum wage to get yelled at by a three-hundred pound man because his hamburger wasn’t made correctly.

The idea that someone can get so worked up over an innocent mistake that can be fixed with about thirty seconds of effort has never ceased to amaze me. I’m all for getting worked up and ranting about things (In case you somehow stumbled upon this blog while looking for doilies and you are vastly confused about it’s subject matter), but theres a certain point when you have to take a step back and ask your self, “What the hell is wrong with me?”

However, since the type of person who enjoys mowing down poor, emotionally defenseless burrito-wrappers at Chipotle is probably not the kind of person to initiate this kind of self reflection, I’ll do it for them.

Who exactly are you helping? Are you under the impression that your spit-filled hate message is going to cause the pimply seventeen-year-old in front of you to experience an epiphany that will lead him to become a paragon of order correctness? Do you think the rancid, odorous profanity you are spewing all over everyone in a fifteen foot radius is going to trigger a world-changing policy that will somehow remove the human variable from the equation and create a fast-food utopia where “ketchup-only” doesn’t contain the occasional onion?

If you answered yes to either of those two questions, I have some very sad news for you. The only thing you will give that person behind the counter besides damp undies and a sudden urge to stab you is the motivation to go to college, get a degree and move into the type of job that allows him to never communicate with another customer like you again. He will go out into the world and work his ass off until he is happier, more successful and much better looking than you. Then, one day after many years of work, he will walk into the McDonalds he was once employed at, order a hamburger with no pickles and then proceed to tear the nervous, pimply-faced seventeen-year-old behind the counter a new one because his order was wrong.