The Spicy McChicken re-worked

Part Two:

The Spicy McChicken


Let me start this one off by assuring you all; no chickens were fucked during the course of this story.  At least none that I’m aware of.  People are into some weird stuff.  I may have mentioned the Slovakian Traffic Cone.  If common sense and natural progression are in effect here, you should have just read all about it, and you’re welcome.  But, instead of real chickens, I’m actually talking about the McDonald’s Hot and Spicy McChicken Sandwich.  It’s on the dollar menu and it’s delicious.  It’s mouth-watering just to think about.  Just picture it: Sicily, 1912.  Wait, that’s something else, something to do with “Shady Pines.”  But, picture it: normal stale bun devoid of all sesame seeds, oddly thin wilted shredded lettuce, processed chicken by-product pink slime patty saturated with pepper and a half jar of Mayonnaise.  It’s like the spicy nectar dripping from a demon’s cankered lady-bits.


Seriously, they put a ridiculous amount of Mayo on those things.  No matter where you go.   I’ve had this sandwich in a bunch of different states and a couple of different countries and it’s always the same.  A metric fuck ton of Mayonnaise.  But I suppose it’s a good thing. If you get one without Mayo it’s drier than an Ayn Rand novel.  Having one in multiple locations should tell you one of three things: either I’m broke, I’m cheap, or I actually think these things are pretty good.  Well, my friends, all of these are correct.  They are good unless you modify them to be the most disgusting concoction to exist here on God’s green goodness.  Which is exactly what this sociopath did.  She fucking ruined it and that still haunts me to this day.


I had had a pretty busy night, not too eventful but steady enough that I didn’t realize it was already past closing time downtown.  I overdid it on either the rides or the energy drinks but I wasn’t feeling the least bit tired.  I had already met my goal for the night but I was still alert and active so I decided to keep going for the night.  It was late enough that I could catch the “walk of shame” crowd or some newly-sobered people who just needed to get their cars back.  It didn’t take long for another request to come in and I started to make my way there.  The destination came in as an address range and a dropped pin rather than a specific street number.  These calls were always fun.  Usually, I would go straight to the dropped pin and it would be within the same block I was supposed to be on, or it would take me behind the building I was supposed to be in front of.  That was the case this night.


I went to the dropped pin and it dropped right next to one of those funky independent coffee shacks.  Picture Dutch Bros., but not a chain.  The kind that either has bikini and lingerie-clad baristas, or the kind with the creepy old dude with the comb-over and bad teeth that offers his customers handy J’s while they wait for their soy latte to froth.  I was really hoping for this ride to be one of the bikini baristas.  That would have been awesome.  I could have used the perk-up and a friendly flirt.  I will concede that at the time it had been a while since I had gotten any action, but I was not yet desperate enough for a hand job and some free candy from Panel-Van Stan.    


To my combined delight and dismay, neither of those scenarios panned out.  The client had called to let me know she was waiting outside a bar close by.  As I expected, the coffee shack was not the desired pickup location, so the possibility of giving a ride to a bodacious bikini-bound blonde, brunette, or both was getting thin.  Bodacious bikini-bound blonde, brunette, or both.  It’s worth repeating.  Where the dropped pin had me posted up was actually a large alley behind the bar where I was supposed to be picking up my next client.  That was problem one.  Problem two is that there was a shopping center on three sides of me with bars in all three buildings.  She still could have been anywhere.  I pulled out of the coffee shop and to proceeded to circle the block for several minutes until I saw someone attempting to flag me down.   The client was so considerate of my time that she decided to go back in the bar to chit chat with her little friends.  I had made three laps around an entire downtown block before she decided to show her round fucking face.


The client was a blondish-red haired young lady wearing a yellow tank top, safari shorts and combat boots.  My initial assessment of her was that Lara Croft had really let herself go.  I pulled in front of her and she took a few steps towards me.  She stopped just short of the door and pulled a small tube from her purse.  While using my back window as a mirror, she applied several thick coats of lip gloss in circles around her mouth.  Possibly to cover and moisturize some cold sores.  But I’m just speculating.  A lot of her traits seemed off to me like she wasn’t sure who she was.  She had a pool cue case slung over her shoulder and a few extra pounds around her hips like she wore like an inner tube. I have zero room to judge though, I’m no Charles Atlas.  Wait, that’s too old of a reference, the kids won’t get it.  Let’s go with Zac Efron.  I’m no Zac Efron.  He’s still relevant, isn’t he?


She opened the door and slumped down in the back.  As soon as her ass hit the seat she immediately started making excuses for not being out front when I got there.  Not that anything she said would have any relevance to my life whatsoever.  Other than possibly costing me a buck or two, I really didn’t care.  I had zero fucks to give.  She could have been in the back alley getting tag-teamed by the Jonas Brothers while she freshened up her lip gloss for all I cared.  At least if that was the case I could have taken some pictures and made some real money selling them to TMZ.  Harvey Levin would freak over something like that.


She started talking about her pool league and how she was catching up with all her “billiard buddies” because she missed last week.  Again, I didn’t care, but she insisted that I knew.  In case you were wondering, the answer is a firm “no.”  90% of the time your driver does not give a shit about what you have to say and half of the time they aren’t even really listening.  As the downtown area got smaller in my rearview, the client made a request that I would receive often enough, so it wasn’t out of the ordinary.  She wanted to stop off for some grindage.  Yes, that was a Pauly Shore reference.  We all know that nothing goes better with a night of booze than greasy food.  I knew that there was a 24-hour McDonald’s up ahead and I told her that that was on the way to her destination and the closest place to where we were.  She was okay with that and seemed pretty happy about it.  I knew where it was immediately because I refuse to go to this particular Mickey-Dees if I have the option.  Not because I eat healthily and turn my nose up like a prude at the golden arches because that is nowhere near the case.  This certain, specific franchise has funny tasting Coke.  Their regular coke tastes like flat Caffeine-Free Diet Cherry Coke with a hint of orange soda; which is a disgusting concept on its own.  And this wasn’t a one-time thing, it had been like that for a few years.  I would keep hoping that “this time it will be different” but was always met with disappointment.  I’m sure there’s an existential life lesson about marriage in there somewhere, but I keep missing it.  


We pull up to the drive-thru and there was a pretty decent line of drunks in front of us already trying to get their Quarter-Pounder on.  We were going to be waiting a few minutes and I knew that I was in for more talk about her boring ass pool league from the bar.  That bar that people only go to when all the other ones are full.  Instead, I was pleasantly surprised, at least for a second.  I was mentally prepared to be bored out of my skull hearing about her personal life but she said something I could actually agree with.  Or at least I thought she did.  She asked if she could have a smoke in the car while we waited.  I thought to myself “Fuck yeah, it’s probably my last ride on a long night.  I could burn one.” So I give her a sly, flirty: “I won’t tell if you don’t.” and grabbed for my cancer sticks.  She rummaged through her purse for a moment, stopped to apply more lip gloss and then I heard something heartbreaking.  A soft sucking sound followed by the crackle of coils heating up.  It wasn’t a smoke, it was a fucking vape.


A fucking vape?  That’s not smoking.  Don’t get my hopes up and say “smoke” if you actually mean suck on a chemical-filled heated dildo until you’re spitting out jizz-clouds.  My head immediately started to buzz into a rant on the downfall of society.


My Brain:  “Let me guess, it’s some fruity flavor, too. Could you be more cliché?  I bet you drive a fucking Subaru and too.  Are your parents paying your bills still?


I seriously wonder sometimes what it must be like to live without an identity.  I figured it was best not to dwell on it and went to spark up my cigarette.  But I’m a judgmental asshole and a hypocrite so I can’t really give too much shit.  I do, but still.  Right before flame hit paper she stopped me by putting a hand on my shoulder.  I was begging the Creator up above for some entertainment.  


My Brain: “Please, please, please let her say something about how much better vaping is for you so I can lose my shit on her.”


I’m not knocking the concept of a vape, I know a few people that vaping helped them quit smoking and eventually quit vaping.  I’m merely against stupid “look at me” trends. You might have noticed this. Don’t get me started on how society wants “men” to look and act these days.


Darth Vaper: “Do you want to try a hit off of mine? It’s strawberries and cream.”


Of fucking course it was.  There were a plethora of things that popped into my head that I could have used to respond.  “No, thanks. Mine aren’t made in some guy’s basement.” Or “I’m good, mine’s actually regulated by the government.” Maybe “No thank you. I still have some self-respect left.” Or even “Nah, it’s probably dripping with lip gloss.” But I jumped off my high horse and declined politely while lighting my smoke. She quickly changed the subject and start talking about how similar our cars were.


Vaper: “Your car is a lot like mine, hatchback and everything.”


Me: “Oh, what kind of car do you have?”


Vaper: “A Subaru wagon.”


My internal monologue was frothing at the mouth.


Soon it was our turn at the ordering kiosk speaker box thingy.  I pulled a little past it so that she could order from the back seat. I thought I was being polite and making things easy.  She made a crack about me not ordering for her.  Because, you know, I can read minds and knew what the fuck she wanted.  The crackling voice of the half-stoned employee came through the speaker and greeted us.  Cumbersomely he informed us that we could order whenever we were ready.  It was mighty polite of him.  The client asked if I wanted anything and even offered to pay for it.  To which, I declined with appreciation.  I was hungry, but strangers buying me meals and shit makes me really uncomfortable.  Then I feel like I owe them something.  She had plenty of time while we were waiting to decide on her order, but instead the speaker is getting so many “Umm”s he probably thought we were a car full of Buddhist monks.


Vaper: “Yeah, can I get two Hot and Spicy McChickens.  And can I get that with no lettuce and add cheese.”


I’m gonna go ahead and stop here and reference the first couple of paragraphs of this story.  The unholy concoction I spoke of earlier?  Well, folks, this is it.  I want you to really think about a McDonald’s Hot and Spicy McChicken sandwich for a bit.  Picture one in your head and imagine the taste.  Use my descriptions from earlier if it helps.  Now let’s modify that beautiful sandwich to meet her standards.  Really visualize it, and, while you’re doing that, try not to yak. Let’s analyze the dynamics of the sandwich.  The finely shredded lettuce acts as a weak barrier between meat and mayo.  The mayo is there as an insulator, protecting your throat from the stale bread and dry chicken.  When all these ingredients come together it is a glorious event; heavenly and orgasmic.  Take out even one ingredient and there’s a glitch in the Matrix.  Add in a dairy product and what the fuck has society come to?  This woman basically ordered a spicy chicken patty topped with a mayonnaise and cheese cannoli.  


All I could see in my head was her biting into that thing and, because she removed the lettuce protection barrier, getting a hot shot of Mayo on her chin down her throat.  It sounds like a cheap porn, but instead of getting an erection, I was trying not to spew. Just knowing the amount of Mayo they put on them, and then to add cheese to that equation? Had she no shame or sense of human decency?  Homeless people would have turned this sandwich down.  Seriously, just thinking about the combination of the two is turning my stomach as I sit here writing this.  I want you to really think about it now.  Go roll up a slice of processed American cheese by-product and fill it with mayonnaise.  Or Miracle Whip for those really sick fuckers out there.  Now take that mayo ravioli and chomp down on it, letting the mixture of egg and oil sauciness leak into your mouth while bits of cheese bounce down your face and I’m going to be sick.


Stoner: “Umm, you said two Hot and Spicy McChickens, no lettuce.  And add cheese? Is that correct?”


Vaper: “Yes it is.”


Stoner: “Well, that’s a new one.  Okay, pull around and we’ll get that right out for you.”


See! Even Stoney McBurger-flipper knew that something was wrong with this equation!  And he did this shit for a living!  He probably assembled a couple of hundred of these a week and got them right at least 15% of the time.  Even with these percentages, the specific combination that just crossed his ears did not compute with his GED.  Now, I’m not assuming that he didn’t graduate High School because he’s stuck working at McDonald’s. That joke would be too easy. I’m saying that he didn’t graduate High School based on the quality of his character. That, and I’ve been here quite a few times on light night drives, binges, and benders. I’ve met the guy a time or two before. He told me.


Now, I know what you’re thinking. “I thought this chapter was about the sexy stuff?” Well, I’m getting to that.  But, the senseless abomination that was ordered that night could not have been ignored!  Good money says that that sandwich is forbidden in several religions and a few countries.  I’m sure there’s a regulation against it in the Hague.  It’s like the old lady getting in your face and making you watch her sensually take her dentures out before she gums on your soft knob while traveling down an escalator because it is multiple levels of wrong.


I had been hit on a time or two doing this job, I’m still not sure why.  It was mainly from drunks who have had six or seven too many.  This girl was quite sober, even though her choice of late night snacks screamed: “I’m fucking wasted.”  Typically the advances were quite overt, but this girl obviously was not your typical drunk sorority slut.  She unwrapped the monstrosity of a sandwich and unbuckled her seat belt, positioning herself so that she could lean forward in between the two front seats. She started asking me about my life and things I’m interested in with a slight air of flirtation in her voice.  She was giggling at things that weren’t funny and probing for something she can start a legit conversation about.  I could tell by her demeanor what was on her mind.  But usually, it’s the guy that’s trying so pathetically.  And I’m just putting this out there: if you’re trying to make my dick hard, smacking on a mayonnaise and cheese Hot Pocket in my ear like a cow chewing cud while globs of petroleum jelly fall off your adult acne face is not a productive method.


I was paying more attention to the road than I was to her and was answering her questions subconsciously.  In between my half-hearted responses without realizing what I was saying, I shot myself in the damn foot and gave her an in.  Fuck.


Vaper: “Do you play video games?”


Me: “When I can.”


Vaper: “Hells yeah! So, are you a console or PC kinda guy?  You look like a PC gamer.”


Me: “Console actually. I haven’t really played computer games since Windows 95 Tetris.”


Vaper: “Have you ever played WoW?


Windows 95 Tetris was the shit.  And, for those who don’t speak nerd, “WoW” stands for “World of Warcraft.”  From what I know of it, you make a character, pretend you’re them, then go around this fantasy world finding other nerds to talk about nerd stuff with. Or Something. I have no idea.  And children post videos of themselves online crying and breaking shit when their parents take it away from them like the entitled little brats they are.  Chuck Norris did a commercial about it once.  So did William Shatner.  I guess it’s true that you either die a hero or live long enough to be on video game commercials and Dancing with the Stars.  I do know this about World of Warcraft, though: there has only been one true, brave hero of WoW.  And that man’s name was Leroy Jenkins.  At least he wasn’t chicken.


Me: “I can’t say I have.”


Vaper: “Oh. Em. Gee! You have to play it, it will change your life!”


Me: “I don’t really have time for something that involved. I try to stay as busy as possible, it helps to keep the demons at bay.”


Vaper: “Oh, you trust me. Once you get into it, you won’t even think about your real demons, you’ll be too busy thinking about quests and upgrading!”


Me: “I don’t know, I might give it a shot one day, but I’ve been way too busy lately and I don’t see that changing for a while.”


Vaper: “Well, I’ve got it at my place. It’s so late I doubt anyone needs a ride right now. I could show you if you’ve got a few minutes.”


Me: “Umm, I’ve still got an hour ride back to my place and I have to work my normal job tomorrow so I’m probably calling it a night and heading home after this.”


All of that was complete bullshit, but I needed to shut her down.  As we weaved through the neighborhoods making our way to her place, she continued to tell me about this game and how she plays online with members of her pool league.  Which is shocking, I know.  It’s like she didn’t have any other friends.  She dropped another couple of hints about me coming inside.  Coming into her house, you fucking perverts.  Although if I did come inside, she would’ve probably let me come inside.  She was dropping hints and I was dropping even bigger hints that it was not fucking happening.  We finally pulled up to her house and she described to me the interior and the quickest way to get to her bedroom.  Because, of course, that’s where her WoW computer was.  Then she started talking about her pool league again.  From this, I gathered two things.  Or at least I thought I did.  I was probably really off the mark.  Firstly, I got the feeling that she wanted the “D.”  Secondly, she was not getting out of the damn car.  I didn’t think she particularly wanted my “D” specifically,  just a “D” in general.  I was merely a target of convenience.  Meh, any port in a storm I guess.


She remained in the back seat, loudly chewing on her Hot and Oily McNasty while talking about more bullshit I had no interest in.  I was just trying to be nice, but I’m still amazed at the bullshit I put up with in hopes of getting a tip.  I was fairly certain she was trying to get a tip, too.  Just the tip.  As in the tip of my dick.  Inside her.  As in she is trying to get me to fuck her.  Is anyone following me on this one?


She continued talking and dropping hints for the next ten minutes or so.  There were no indications that she had any intentions of getting out of the car anytime soon.  The shit was getting ridiculous.  And yes, I kept the meter running, I’m not simple.  I had turned to face her as best I could while in my seat. I kept doing things like rubbing my chin with my left hand and putting my hand on the seat next to me so she could see it.  I did everything I could think of short of shoving my wedding ring directly in her fucking face.  It phased her none.  I even began to fake yawn like I was getting tired.  That shit backfired on me as well.


Me: “I need to get home, I’m getting sleepy.”


Vaper: “That’s a long drive. Not to sound like a big creep, but you seem cool enough.  You could crash here if you want.  It’s only a one bedroom, I live alone”


Me: “Thanks, but I’m fine.  That would be a bit out of my comfort zone.  Plus, I have back problems from an accident a few years back. I don’t think I’d be able to handle a couch tonight.”


Vaper: “Oh, I wouldn’t make you sleep on the couch.”


Fucking called it.  A one bedroom and no couch. The time for subtleties had passed.  For both of us, it seemed.  I went into evasive maneuvers and threw out a line about the wife being upset if I didn’t come home that night.  The advances slowed down for about a whole minute and a half.  Finally, after about twenty-five minutes of sitting in my car talking about drinking, billiards, and role-playing games, she finally gathered up her purse and cracked the door open. I thought I might actually be rid of her.  We were six blocks away from the McDonald’s and she had been sitting here flapping her yap long enough to suck down two sandwiches.  I felt the ride was finally closing, which, of course, meant that she had to stop to dig through her purse.  She began to fiddle with something I couldn’t see, but I didn’t really care I just wanted her out of the car.  I figured she was just applying lip gloss for the seventeenth time tonight.  She reached out her hand towards me and I saw that every-so-joyous glint of green.  I extended my hand to grab the tip and she clenched up so I couldn’t quite get it.


Vaper: “Too bad you can’t stay, we could’ve had some fun.  If you change your mind, drop me a line.”


She relinquished the tip and got out of the car.  As she closed the door, she approached the window across from me with a smile and a goodbye wave.  I felt like I had to be nice since she tipped so I looked over to wave back just in time to see her bend at the waist and pull the collar of her shirt down.  I could see straight down her cleavage to her stomach to include her exposed nude-colored full-cupped bra.  You know the bra I’m talking about.  The kind of bra that you would find hanging over your mom’s shower curtain when you were a kid sneaking around your parents’ bathroom looking for your dad’s porn stash.  Now, I’m all about sluttiness, if it’s slutty, I’m down like a system.  Well, if we’re together.  I think that if you’re chasing someone and pursuing some Bow-Chicka Wow-Wow, you don’t give it up all at once.  It’s a slow play, the long game if you will. Ahh, more advice I have never taken.  I put out on the first date.


That would have been a fine place to end things, but this comedy of errors in seduction had once more card to be played.  It would be the final nail in the coffin; concreting that no part of this person or her chicken sandwich would ever touch my genitals, or as they’re known in France, “the no-no square.”  Or, as they’re known at your mom’s, “magnificent.”  I drove up the road and stopped at the next intersection.  I still had the tip in my hand and needed to hide it before it ended up in a stripper’s thong.  I remembered that she said made a comment about dropping her a line, but didn’t give me a number.  The next thought I had was that on my first weekend doing this job, a woman gave me her number in front of her husband.  But she had to hide it so he wouldn’t notice, so she wrote it on the tip.  I thought maybe it was a thing in this area that I was not privy to.  It’s not my style, but I guess it’s better than Tinder.  


I unrolled the bill I had in my hand and, sure enough, her contact info was there.  But this crafty, clever, convoluted cunt didn’t give me her phone number.  Oh, no, not this one.  Nor did she give me an email address.  Not even a name that I could look up if I were interested or really, really desperate.  This winner at life gave me a five-dollar bill and scrolled on the back of it was her Gamer Tag.  For those who don’t speak virgin, that was her Online gaming nickname.


Now for arguments purposes, and for the sake of my entertainment, let’s say I was a big enough creep to actually go for it and let her advances play out.  Let’s just say that I was a big enough piece of shit to try to get clients to go from riding in my backseat to riding me in the backseat.  Let’s say I was that guy.  I can’t even fathom how that would play out.  I could never be that guy.  My dick has standards.  They are not very high, but I’m sure they exist.  I could have ignored the extra poundage easily, there’s nothing wrong with that, beauty comes in all shapes and sizes.  I could have ignored her bland personality.  Especially if I was only trying for a one-night stand.  Because I wouldn’t listen to anything she had to say anyway and would never see her again.  Hell, I could have even ignored her hipster bullshit like vaping man-buns and cruising around town in her Subaru.  But there was one glaring problem that I could not get over, and I’m not even talking about her shit fashion sense.  There was something about her that disturbed me to my soul and chilled my bones.  This one thing rocked me so hard that if I was able to ignore it long enough to get an erection, I would not have been able to maintain it and, Lord knows, I would have never been able to cum.  “What about her could be that horrible,” you ask?  She just downed two Hot and Spicy McChicken sandwiches.  No lettuce.  Add cheese.


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