If there’s one thing we all love (unless you’re weird and have no friends), it’s a lunch break at Chipotle between one and three times per week. Hey, no judgment here. You just had it on Monday, and already by Wednesday you yearn to spend an extended period of your afternoon in the handicap stall fighting off demons like the priest in The Exorcist. Repeat the dilemma again on Friday. It happens.
Everyone has their own particular orders. Some people load up on a little bit of everything while others have only a few ingredients they prefer. I happen to fall into the latter group: just rice, barbacoa and cheese for me, thanks. As I only get three things on my burrito that could’ve been ordered by a 5-year-old, I have the rational expectation that I’m allowed to have a little more of my selected ingredients. Enter the overly involved Chipotle worker who has the damn balls to charge me two extra dollars for another minuscule finger-scoop of cheese and/or another quarter-tong of meat. Seriously, the balls on this guy. I ordered just three things on my burrito and it looks like a 6-inch kielbasa. How about a little girth on that bad boy? By the way, not once have I ever seen those tongs used at full capacity, so get smaller ones and quit blue balling everyone into thinking they’re about to get a generous portion of anything, you dicks.
Look, man, judging by the five piercings attached to your face and sleeve tattoos covering both of your arms, I can see we have chosen different paths in life, and that’s fine. That’s just, like, your journey, man. But since I’m not getting beans, hot sauce, or anything else and still paying full price, just put the extras on my burrito without looking like I’m pissing on your grandmother’s grave. I don’t have time to give you an economics lesson, and I understand your perceived duty to your employer, the almighty Chipotle, but it’s not like you have your own parking spot outside, and I’m also calling bullshit on your “I made the steak today” shirt. Nice try. I bet you showed up 45 minutes late to work again.
Coming here during my one hour of freedom is often the highlight of my day, because even though we barter for extra ingredients like we’re on Pawn Stars, I’d still rather be here dicking with your obstinate ass than in my fluorescent shitbox of an office. I’m asking for a little extra food, not for you to take a Chipotle-induced shit on my lunch hour, so try to fight your inner asshole just enough to not cringe when you give me that extra half an ounce of delicious, slow-cooked pork. Thanks.
I’ll see you Friday, you son of a bitch.
P.S. During tight money weeks, I put Coke in that tiny water cup you give me. Score one for the American consumer public, jackass.