“Chzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzbrzzzzzzzzzelp you?”
“Yes, I'd like a number one—”
“Chzzzzzzo?”
“Number one!”
“Bzzzzzzzoke?”
“Yes, with a Coke.”
“Crzzzzuperduper size it?”
“No, I'll just take it the regular ludicrous size.”
“Bzzzzzzzour fourty-seven. Drive around please.”
“Thank you.”
I drove to the first window and hand over a $10 bill. The cashier makes change, and hands it and the receipt over. I scan the receipt and notice that it's not for the number one I order, but a number seven, megaduper humongous size. “I'm sorry, but this isn't my order,” I said, handing back the change and recept. The cashier looked puzzled. “I ordered a number one, regular ludicrous size.”
“Oh,” she said. She called over another worker, and both started talking in a patrois that I did not understand. The second one then started slamming on the cash register and by the tone of her voice, I could only assume that she was swearing in whatever langauge she natively spoke. She then called over a manager.
He walked up, and between all three of them, in somewhat hushed tones and slightly broken English, an explanation of what happened transpired. The cars were backing up behind me. The manager furiously punched buttons on the formerly abused cash register, recounted out my change, and handed it to me. “Next window please,” he said.
At the next window, the fast-food worker held a bag towards me. “Number one, regular ludicrous size with a Coke?”
“Yes, that's my order,” I said, taking the bag and Coke from her.
At least I didn't end up with a hamless ham and cheese without the cheese sandwich [1].