Realizations of Elitism at the Drive-ThruYou can just call me butter because I'm on a roll!
I don’t have time to wait.
I’m sitting in the drive-thru and these things take forever.
Vitamins and minerals are an essential part of a balanced
diet, but Big Macs are faster.
Fast like me.
I want my food now so I can eat it on the way to work and
not lose any more time.
The faster I eat, the faster I can get to work.
The faster I get to work, the faster I can get home.
The faster I get home, the faster I can get drunk and pretend
for a measly few minutes that tomorrow I don’t have to go to work again.
It won’t work, though.
All the slow-motion warm fuzzy feelings in the world won’t
stop six o’clock from coming like a semi to my groggy head.
Being faster won’t help either, but I still honk my horn
like being rude to a sixteen-year-old kid will somehow make my life suck less.
Somewhere in Mexico,
there’s a family eating rice and beans, the same meal as yesterday, and they’re
happy and proud to be fed by the labor of their own hand.
Where do we get off in our thinking that we’re better than
the guy who serves us burgers?
A moment of clarity and everything is clear and shining
brightly.
The window opens and a fresh-faced boy hands me my lunch.
I open my mouth to thank him, when I see the clock behind
his shoulder and suddenly I realize that I’m late for work.
So I snatch the bag, let off a few obscenities and take off
like a bat leaving Hell at about 90 miles an hour so that he can show up late
to a job that he wouldn’t have been late for if it weren’t for some stupid kid. | 
