By Darcy Tacner
I have work in the afternoon, which means I get to fully explore the moral intricacies of a vegetarian selling burgers. I’ve been on shift a while when a jersey-wearing man wielding a cell phone steps forward in line.
“Welcome to—”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “You got gluten-free stuff?”
“There’s a chicken salad.”
“I said I’m gluten-free. How the hell would I eat salad?”
Sometimes a tiny drop of grease from the deep-fat fryers burns me; the sting lasts for an hour each time. I could lift the entire tub and pour it onto his skin and he would scream.
“Okay.”
Is there no end to entitled ignorance with the demand for uninterrupted stasis?
Love this. Ban fast-food worker abuse!