Don't Go Through The Drive-Thru If You're Going To Take All Fucking Day
If there's one thing everyone should know about me by now, it's that I'm a pretty god damned patient guy. I mean, when you really think about the sheer amount of things in this world that have potential to piss me or anyone else the fucking shit off, it's a Jesus Christing miracle that I don't FLIP OUT and KILL EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU SHITS. But you know what? I don't, because I have patience, and self-control. But god damnit, there are just some things that need an ass-kicking. Things like ASSHOLES in the DRIVE-THRU.
Let me set the old scene for you. It's Saturday early-afternoon (which is technically one of the worst parts of the week, because you know in the back of your mind that you only have FORTY FUCKING T-SHIT-WO hours until the old plant ropes you back in like a fucking RODEO COWBOY YEE-SHIT), and I'm out with the little fucks and fuck (that's my pet names for the kids and my ball-and-shit), looking for something to eat. The kids were yelling in my ears for McShittingnald's, and being the relatively nice guy I am, I agreed, on the condition that nobody got any Filet O' Fish sandwiches because once I got a bone from a fish in my throat and it cut me and pissed me off. So we pulled into the Drive-Thru line, because I didn't feel like going inside the store and being assaulted by more little kids besides my own, not to mention RETARDED clerks and GIANT PURPLE FUCKING MONSTERS.
Finally, after about 90 MILLION YEARS, there was only one car in front of us. I only saw two people in there, so I calculated that it should only take them 32 seconds to order, if they had any fucking brains at all. Just to make sure, though, I rolled down my window so that I could hear what they were saying, and help them out if they were going too FUCKING MOLASSES ASS.
"What are you doing, Daddy?" one of my FRUIT OF MY FUCKING LOINS said. "We're not at the speaker yet?"
"WE WON'T BE AT YOUR SHIT YET IF YOU DON'T SHIT THE SHUT UP!" I explained, smashing my head into the back of my seat to get him to lean back. "DADDY'S LISTENING TO SOMETHING."
Meanwhile, the person in front of me was already FUCKING UP their order. "Uh, let's see here..." they babbled. "Could I get a number two, please, and make it super size, and --"
"THEY DON'T HAVE SUPER SIZE YOU SHIT SHIT!" I screamed. The guy glanced at me, CONFUSED FOR SOME REASON, and then the CASHIER MONKEY inside said, "Sorry, we don't have super size anymore. Would you like a large?"
"Sure, large, I guess," the guy said, but it was too late. 32 seconds had already passed, and his precious little FUCKFRIEND or whatever the shit she was hadn't even ordered yet!
"TIME'S UP, KIDS!" I told them, slamming my foot on the accelerator and beginning to try and push their car out of the way. "LET OLD UNCLE PETE GET HIS TIME IN, YOU FUCKING FILET O' FISH LOVING FUCKS!"
"Sir, I didn't order a Filet O' Fish, and I'm not done ordering yet!" the asshole had the NERVE to say, trying to put his brakes on to stop me from DOING MY BUSINESSS. "Stop hitting my car!"
"FILET OF FUCK, YOU SHIT!" I said, and got out of the car. My patience, which had been holding pretty fucking FREDDY-STEADY up to that point, was out.
"Jesus, he's coming over! Lock your door!" I heard the FAGGEROO say to his FAGGOT GIRLFRIEND, probably secretly meaning "Wait until I get my Filet O' Fish and I'll choke him with the bones!"
"SHOWS WHAT YOU KNOW, FISH MONGER!" I announced, bending over to his exhaust pipe. "I'm SMOKING YOU OUT!" Then, I started to get a bunch of the exhaust in my mouth, intending to fill my mouth up and then go over to his window and blow it into his car to get him moving.
"Don't do that, man!" I heard the HALF-MAN, HALF-FISH FUCKING HYBRID say. "That's dangerous! We can work this out!"
"You can't trick me, your honor," I said around the exhaust pipe, but to tell you the truth, I wasn't feeling so hot around that point, probably because the guy had known ahead of time I was going to that McDonald's and deliberately put stuff in his exhaust pipe to fucking POISON me. "You and your tupperware parties...Jesus Christ...don't hit the iron with your fish."
After that, I don't remember so well, but the next thing I knew, I was awake in the fucking HOSPI-SHIT that'll probably charge me $9,000 just because they fucking SAVED MY LIFE with only MINIMAL FUCKING BRAIN DAMAGE. I would move to Canada for their free healthcare, but then I'd be a FUCKING CANADIAN, and who wants that, you know?
Anyway, the moral of the story is this: if you go through the FUCKING FUCK-FUCK, know what you fucking WANT. There's some WALKING TUNA out there who learned this the hard way, courtesy of old PETE DUNSON.