What's wrong?

Have you ever been knee deep in a situation that is so bizarre you swear you are being punk'd or something? Well, that was me a little over a week ago.

My friend, Nikki, and I were headed back from a wedding that took place in Norman, Oklahoma. The wedding was ever so elegant in that drunken debauchery kinda way, plus it answered the age old question of what it takes to have a truly "memorable" wedding.

Booze.

And booze hounds. Ah the good times, but I digress.

Anyway, as I was saying we were driving back to Dallas, when it occurred to us that we were hungry. And if there's one place to stop when driving thru Texas, it's a Dairy Queen. After all, it's the Texas stop sign.

So cutting three lanes of hyper-sonic-speed traffic, we pull up to the Dairy Queen in Valley View, TX. I looked and thought oh look it's an old fashioned one, how quaint. I'll now refer to this as flashing-neon-warning-sign #1, as this Dairy Queen wasn't so much old fashioned as a complete shit hole leading to the depths of hell that no man has ever known.

But again I digress.

This would be the first of many signs that I overlook because I was in need of some food. Food that would hopefully soak up some of the excess alcohol from this 48 hour drinking binge (sorry, Mr. Liver, please forgive me!) and cure this 17 hour hangover. I opened the door and the immediate smell of fried grease and stale fries told me that, oh yes, you will eat here and it will be good. The ol' white trash hick in me actually exclaimed out loud, "YES! They have steak fingers, I love steak fingers!" I can only assume that my mind was still in some leftover-alcohol induced haze because throughout our experience at the Dairy Queen these steak fingers will prove to be my achilies heal.

It's after I enthusiastically order my steak fingers that things begin to take a turn for the worse. First off, someone is one the phone so they can't process my debit card right now. I will have to wait. That's right they're still dialing in credit cards. I check my watch, yep, still 2005. Get a new process dumbasses, oh say one that doesn't use a phone line. It's now that I notice that there's not a single person over the age of, oh say I don't know, 16 working there. None. And there' s not one dude to be seen. This revelation is punctuated by my lovely cashier screaming, to no one in particular, "GET OFF THE PHOOOOOO - NUUH!" Yeah, get off the phone. I want to eat, dammit.

(Using our credit cards for a $6.58 meal will eventually pay off, but I would hate to get ahead of myself.)

Eventually the card gets scanned and now we wait. Waiting for our food turns out to be a bad thing. I begin to see all the not-so-subtle hints that should have had me running straight for the door. The kitchen floor was covered in old food. Smashed ice cream cones. Smushed french fries. And bits of gawd knows what. Well, they're busy I tell myself, as I grab my own cup from behind the counter and prepare my own drink. But then I turn and see the Blizzard machine. It's been defiled like a drunk girl in Cancun. Still I stay. Now at this point you're asking yourself, damn, girl are steak fingers that good? Oh yes. Yes they are.

Meanwhile, there are a few interesting situations occurring behind us. First, a young lady, let's call her Chrystal (because? I dunno, if you saw her you would have said yeah she looks like a Chrystal) receives her food on a tray. Chrystal kindly informs the employees that her food was to go. The lovely girls of Dairy Queen then proceed to answer the age old question, just what does it take to switch a dine-in order to a to go one? 17 minutes, several arguments, and one paper bag. We'll hear more from Chrystal later on. Next, a nice older woman, we'll call her Alice, returns to complain that her order was all messed up and that her fries were cold. All I can think is, Damn, hope they get that taken care of before they get to fixin' my meal. After 13 more mintues of waiting Alice finally gets fed up and demands a refund. OOOOOh, this just got interesting.

(Cue stand off music)

Alice: I would like my money back.
Petulant 16 year old brat: Um, yeah we don't like give refunds.
Alice: Well, start.
Petulant 16 year old brat: Um, no. (roll eyes, sigh heavily)
Alice: Just. Do. It.

Alice then gives her one of those looks that seemed to say that Alice was on the verge of doing something very unholy. The petulant 16 year old's friend folded before we could see what Alice was going to do and gave Alice the refund. You go Alice.

Now here's how the next five minutes at the Dairy Queen in Valley View, TX go:

Kitchen: Order up.

Nikki and I: Oh good maybe that's our food.

Kitchen: Order UP!

Nikki and I: Christ just give us our food and let us go.

Kitchen: ORDER UP!

Nikki goes to investigate. I remain seated. This is when our friend Chrystal returns. "You call this a chili cheese dog?" she says as she shoves her food in my face. Folks, I have seen dirty diapers that were more appetizing than what was presented before me. I choke back vomit.

I get up to find Nikki. We must get out of here. Now.

She's at the counter trying to conversate with the employees:

Nikki: What the hell is going on here? Where's our food? The cook has been yelling order up for five minutes. Who's in charge? Everything is so very, very discombobulated.

Triple word score for Nikki. The employees respond with blank stares.

One of the girls has gone back to retreive the food orders. Oh, all will be forgiven if I could just get my steak fingers. They hand me a box of goodness. Poor Nikki, still no popcorn chicken.

Slowly my brain begins to return to normal function:

Oh boy can't wait to eat my yummy steak fingers.

Common Sense brain: You should check the order, as Nikki said, things are very discombobulated here.

OH NO! These are chicken fingers instead of steak! Grrr. Oh well, I'm super hungry I'll eat them anyways.

Common Sense brain: The hell you will, get up there and get your steak fingers, WOMAN!

I proceed to the cash register. I'm fired up now. You fucked up my steak fingers. I feel betrayed. There I join a woman, we'll call her Carole, she was mistakenly given a box of steak fingers, and just like me she is now lodging her formal complaint. I listen to Carole explain that she ordered chicken finger meal and she would like to get a chicken finger mealin return. It's then that I hear this doozy from one of the staff, how should I know what you wanted I didn't take your order.

You gotta be kidding me. I then calmly look up from the sad box of chicken fingers and say I would like my money back. It's then when I am confronted with this:

Lucky to alive 16 year old brat: Why? What's wrong?

What's WRONG? WHAT'S WRONG? (I am Jack's rage) Have you gotten an order right YET! Do you see your kitchen floor? Your dining room covered in trash? That dirty diaper passed off as a chili cheese dog? What's wrong is that I'm hungover and my wits aren't quite about me, so I stayed here for thirty minutes whilst you just pissed on my glorious steak fries. What's wrong is that I broke my thumb and can't grip things too well, things like your neck when I chokeslam you.

During all of this a "woman" emerges from the back room. We'll call her Tonya. Or maybe Misty Jo. Why? Because imagine the most white trash woman you have ever seen. Now multiply that by twenty, and you're roughly about to Misty Jo's level. Hair so bleached it's straw. One inch black as night roots. Eyeliner done in the shade of Sharpie marker. Braces. And that fresh from a five day meth bender glaze to her eyes. She is no help. She says nothing. She offers no reprieve. My guess is she'll be looked over for Manager of the Year, again.

Lucky to alive 16 year old brat: Um yeah, we don't give refunds without a receipt.

Carole doesn't have a receipt. Poor Carole.

Nikki and I do though.

"$6.58 is your refund."

God Bless Credit.

And I'm still hungry for some steak fingers.