Drive on Thru to the Other Side

I know I’ve already covered the topic of the fast food Drive Thru, but I’m doing it a different way this time. As a man I can do anything I want in multiple ways. That’s how we men avoid fucking things up like drunken octopi with tack hammers duct taped to their tenaculars. We try things in different ways.

The only things women can do, they do in only one way. That’s not only ineptitude, it’s laziness; and in some societies it’s called the Seven Year Itch — when men get sick of coming home from a long day at work just to have sex with a futon.

Women can’t do the Drive Thru. Let me tell you a story.

I was ordering some burritos in a Drive Thru yesterday evening and I was just two feet shy of the order box. I could hear the woman inside barking for my order, but she couldn’t hear me. That’s fine, I thought. I’ll just wait — but then I noticed something.

After placing her order, the woman in front of me had pulled up a random distance and then stopped her car, thus leaving a four or five foot gap between herself and the car in front of her. A four or five foot gap that was keeping me four or five minutes away from eating a delicious burrito.

Usually I would do nothing about this. Women go halfway in everything that they do, why should driving a car through a lane with concrete bumpers be any different? Even children can do that. It’s called bumper bowling. Not women though. And every Drive Thru in the world has the tire marks and broken flood lights to prove it.

Besides, if you make it your business to correct every feminine fuckup you encounter in any average day, you’ll quickly find yourself exhausted, hen pecked until you can hear the indignancy in your sleep, and probably bald or impotent. No thanks.

The drive thru is just like everywhere else, you should be as close as possible to the car in front of you at all times. It’s on the first page of the fucking driver’s manual for Christ’s sake. Or it should be. I’m a man so I don’t read manuals. Most of the fun in having things is figuring out how they work on your own. It’s called building character.

I was going to backup a little bit in the Drive Thru last night because when I inched forward, my radio receiver had entered one of those spots where you get no reception — I call them Women Zones, but lo and behold what did I see. Some other halfwit woman in a car that was a hundred times more powerful than she could manage had pulled up right behind me.

Typical.

Women are guns a blazin’ when it comes to getting what they want, but as soon as they’ve given their two cents or “gotten theirs” so to speak, you are shit out of luck, my friend.

I honked half-heartedly at the women in front of me and then threw in the towel. She had absolutely no idea what I could possibly want her to do and her enraged shrug said exactly that to a T. She had absolutely no idea what I could possibly want her to do when the only thing in the world that she could have possibly fucking done was pull forward.

It’s bumper fucking bowling, you crazy bitch. What does honk mean? Turn up your radio? Fuck.

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