Here’s the set up. I decide to get lunch at Taco Bell today, and had my usual battery of four spicy chicken burritos, four classic hard shell tacos, two Mexican Pizzas and a Nacho Bell Grande. Plus, a large Mountain Dew. I grab a seat with my back to the wall — you know, in case anyone’s trying to get the drop on me — and dig in.
That’s when I noticed the constant stream of chatter coming from two tables over. It was the store manager, some 20-year-old punk, giving a performance review to one of the Bell’s employees. Which is fine, but this idiot peppered everything he said with money cult codewords like “sensitivities,” “challenges,” “goals,” “opportunities,” “going forward,” and the like.
But not a single goddamn word about tacos.
Next thing that kid knows, my monstrously fat hand is slapping the Taco Bell hat right off his head. Then I pulled him up by his collar and growled:
“Listen, meathead. You work at Taco Bell. Got it? Taco. Bell. There are neither challenges, nor opportunites, at this level. Now shut the hell up and go make some tacos.”
Mission accomplished, I hightailed it out of there before the pigs showed. But not before grabbing a to-go bag for the remainder of my meal. Hey, a man’s gotta eat. Especially one as fat as me.