I finally pulled up to the drive-through. At this point I'd cleaned all my windows and memorized all the bumper stickers on the cars in front of me.
"Hi, welcome to Jack in the Box. How are you today?"
Awesomeness. An open-ended essay question. Because the Jack in the Box drive-through simply. Wasn't. Slow. Enough. Before.
"You have got to be kidding."
"¿Que?"
Well, that's easily enough resolved. I just won't go to Jack in the Box anymore. A week or so later, I was at McDonald's, and the adbot crackled out of the speaker before my forward momentum had nearly arrested.
"HI WELCOME TO MCDONALDS WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRY OUR NEW CARAMEL MOCHA LATTES THEY'RE ONLY $1.99 PLEASE ORDER WHEN YOU'RE READY (voice changes gender) Hi, welcome to McDonald's. How's your day going?"
Fine. How about yourself? Caked in grease and dried cow blood and generally miserable? Good, good. Say, speaking of cows, how about a fucking burger?
OK, I get it, I'm a misanthrope. This hug-a-fatty outreach program is clearly not intended to appeal to me. So please, would the person who wants a relationship with the dried cow blood person please identify yourself? Because I'm reasonably certain you don't exist.