You may remember my previous encounters: chili-crazed squirrel attack, hot steamy Latin luvin', the rat perched on the ordering screen...
Yeah, you know I know better.
All I wanted was a Coke Zero. A big, icy cold cup of (probably) kidney-killing diet crack. And I wanted to read over the ads in the Sunday Washington Post. (I read the Post online, but I buy the big Sunday bundle for coupons and to read Date Lab. Oh, and Date Lab? That requires a whole blog post unto itself. As in, what should you think when a co-worker appears in Date Lab and expresses a dislike for people who look like you? As in, how do you interact with someone who has given a "no fat chicks" statement to a newspaper he has to know most of the Metro area is going to see? Like I said, that requires a lot more words than a mere parenthetical aside.)
So, there I was, diggin' the sweet, sweet breeze in the Wendy's lot, sippin' on my Zero, flipping through the Target circular, lovin' autumn, when a spoileriffic Honda zips in a couple of spaces down from me. The lot was completely empty, by the way, when I pulled in. The Fast-and-Furious, pimped out, street racer-ish Honda just had to Tokyo drift itself into the only row with anyone in it.
As the car doors opened, I noticed the driver was Ed Hardy-garbed from head to toe - a young Latino guy sporting the Jon "early middle-age crisis" Gosselin look - and the chica who slid from passenger seat was in jeans painted on so tightly, I was astounded she could move (or had circulation in) her legs. A couple of minutes passed as I glossed through the opinion section of the paper (was the Nobel Prize selection committee smoking crack? did they bring enough to share?) and I realized the Honda duo hadn't managed to leave the lot. They were caught in up a passionate clinch that had apparently bypassed G, PG, and most of R on the way to letters way up in the alphabet.
The breeze had picked up. Maybe they'd just found a good way to raise internal body temperatures.
There was much giggling, and then it seemed they were leaving. And the Hardy Boy was letting the little lady get behind the wheel.
Putting down the Style Section after a few minutes, I realized the couple hadn't left. Both the driver and passenger doors were open, and the dude lolled back in the passenger seat, one leg stretched out to the ground.
But the chiquita? She was driving, all right. And apparently, she knew how to drive manual.
She was, uh, working the stick.
Polishing the gear shift knob.
Upsizing his combo.
Getting him a triple beef patty.
With everything on it.
And I really, really, REALLY didn't need to see the beef in question.
But I did.
And it will be the stuff of nightmares for many nights to come.
Guys, seriously - hand jobs, blow jobs, and just about any other job of an intimate nature in a fast food parking lot at 4 in the afternoon?
All I can say is this - I think I'll be avoiding any beef products at Wendy's for a while.
Somebody, hand me the TUMS...