Standing at the till in your local Fastfood establishment, you may be completely unaware of the frantic jostlings and general happenings on the opposite side of the counter where the poor creatures toiling in the kitchen have to face the sneering up-turned noses of the fuckwit hoards that grace the building everyday from open to close. In my experience, having worked in a McDonalds for 7 (long) months, most of the workers are pleasant, fun, intelligent and enjoy what they do. It just so happens that customers are arseholes. As the most minuscule part of their day, a fastfood worker is below human; they’re unhuman.
Respect and courtesy are kicked to the side. From what I have observed, two thoughts must occur in the customer’s brain 1. The unhuman is working in a fastfood restaurant, they must be a fucking moron. And 2. They work in a fastfood restaurant, they are beneath me. As one female customer eloquently put it, “Them in the kitchen.. Are they foreign or just retarded?” Unfortunately, they had put onions in a burger when she had requested no onions. The only conclusion we can make of this is that she must be incredibly important and that we are simpletons who made the mistake of existing.
And whilst it is ‘unskilled’ labour, people seem to ignore that the employees are often just trying to earn money on the side while a midst their studies. But don the ludicrous uniform and pin a nametag on the chest, you become a nobody. I think it says more about your intelligence if you assume that the person providing you a service is fucking brain-dead. However, I have experienced more than just my intellect thrown into question by some lard-sagging shitnut.
This complete bitch thought my unhumanity stretched to personal hygiene. She waddles in, barely collapses as she wheezes in front of my till. “Hi there, can I help?” I offer cordially, because I am polite as fuck. “Yeah. Chocolate Milkshake.” As a machine that will be used a thousand times a day The McMilkshaker is a temperamental beast and will often spit small amounts of shake before becoming the fountain of thick brown gunge that we all know and love.
On this particular occasion a small speck hit the side of the cup and dribbled onto my thumb nail. I pass her the cocoa-slime with a smile and await the confirmatory grunt that signals the end of transaction. Instead, she spots the gloop on my thumb and her face contorts into a disgusted grimace. The sweaty gargoyle asks “Do you even wash your hands?” I reply with a monotone “Yes, it’s just from the milkshake I made a second ago.” Looking unsatisfied, she murmurs “That’s disgusting…” and jiggles off somewhere to gorge.
I stand slack-jawed with my mouth slightly ajar. My mind hazed at that point… If the chubslut thinks a small drip from the shake machine is bad I don’t think she would be able to comprehend the scum that resides on the faces of an average coin, not to mention the coins that come into contact with some of the ogres that frequent the restaurant. And if she just imagined how many hundreds of coins I had to handle everyday from grubby, clammy hands that had probably never seen soap. And then imagine me fingering and grabbing the food that will soon travel into her body, having just touched a (both metaphorical and literal) shit-covered coin or note.
In the moments that followed the transaction I was praying that I had touched something diseased and contagious. The jokes on her; I would be washing my hands in the next 5 minutes, whereas the she-beast would be slurping up cock and vag germs that had rubbed off onto my hands and then onto her drink. But alas, she would be fine. And no doubt she would act with same fuckery as she undoubtedly does with every worker she sees herself above. Fuck me, I’m glad I escaped.
Thanks for reading, I rate this blog 6.3/10.01 on the Simmonds Blog Scale. Too preachy and self-righteous.
Enjoy your meal.