To whoever decided to toy with the drive-through speakers Saturday morning, I hope you're happy. I personally blame you for making me weep inconsolably, like a little girl when told that her pony must be put down due to rabies.I busted my hump when you placed that fake order for a hundred and seventy-five Number 2 meals. I sounded Alert Level Defcon, which means pulling folks off the registers to pry open large vats of cheesy sauce. Immediately, faxes were sent off to the Home Office for the district, informing the Regional Manager of a traffic uptick. Running low on roast beef, we resorted to ritually slaughtering the cat of Casey, the fry cook. Man, she got upset, but at Arby's, the customer comes first. We're willing to die in order to please you.
And then what did you do? You rode on through, past both of the windows (Casey had sobbingly pleaded with you to proceed to the first window for payment), slowing down only to laugh and call me a four-letter name I cannot repeat here. Suddenly, our best day ever in the entire history of the Mississauga, Ontario Arby's went up in smoke. Partly because Casey caught her tie on fire on the grill, but also because we were left with 175 sandwiches, slathered in cheese and extra horsey sauce, and nothing to do with them all.
Well, I'll tell you what I did. I sat and ate each and every one of those sandwiches. It took me three days to do it, during which I lay naked on the tile floor of my office, experiencing severe gastrointestinal cramping and taking the Lord's name in vain. My girlfriend left me in disgust, and I had to have Casey mop up my urine and tears because I was too bloated to stand. But I wasn't about to let your prank lead to product loss. I also paid for that food out of my own pocket, to the tune of $1391.25. There goes my trip to Carlsbad Caverns, and the down-payment on the lead testes I was going to have implanted to replace the ones I lost in Kuwait.
I know you're out there somewhere, Bobby Turner. Giggling at my misery. One of these days, I'll find you, and you'll get a stern talking-to! You're no longer welcome either here or at the Brampton and Oakville stores. That'll teach you that roast beef is a privilege, not a right.


