Munchies are a bitch, and today I really wanted a McGriddle. The problem was that I lived 45 minutes out of town, but not to be persuaded otherwise I jumped in my car with every intention to throw caution to the wind and break every speed limit thrown at me. Time: 9:34 am. 
I topped out probably around 35 mph, but only because a particular Billy Idol song came on the radio and I was understanding the lyrics in an all new way. I hit Blackstone Ave. at 10:23am. I had 7 minutes to travel 5 blocks, I conceived this to be possible, but then I sighted an orange Cal-Trans sign.
“Expect Delays on: TODAY”. Damnit! One lane and every goddamned traffic light tried to slow me down, but nothing could delay me now, “Welcome to the Jungle” just came on the radio and I was in the mood to race. I smoked a mid-eighties Honda Accord, and absolutely raped a 57’ Chevy truck. No one was safe, nothing could stand in the way of me and my Number 7. The left hand turn lane was nearing, and throwing a backwards glance to the world I didn’t even signal. My way was clear, my pedal was at capacity, my clock, still ticking. Time: 10:30 am
Women over the age of 85 were what made me late, therefore I hate them, I hate old ladies with carts, who, ever since petitioning for women’s suffrage in 1920 have run out of meaningful things to demand. Today was apparently pedestrians right’s day and the geriatrics were taking turns walking their carts in front of my car one after the other in a sort of nonviolent resistance. Shopping carts laden with Target brand goods, filthy capitalists. I sat in the same spot idling, just staring at the edifice that housed my tabernacle, only a few yards away, I thought maybe I, like Moses, would never get to see the promised land.
I pulled up to the box that housed a voice coming as if from nowhere. The voice was menacingly cheery, it knew that it would be the cause of the dejection I was about to feel, and was taking joy in depriving me of my holy grail, it ironically belonged to a women. 
She asked me too hold on and then acted like she had left. She wanted me to know that she was in control of the conversation and was asserting it though a sort of forced silence, I could think of nothing clever to say, not knowing at that time that I was dealing with Satan. I was on the offensive, I hated that.
She drew first blood: “Welcome to McDonalds, what can I get for you today?”
“Um…a, ah…number 7 please.” I waited, my breathe held, would my dream come true?
“What kind of drink?”
“Oh shit! I mean, uh…Dr. Pepper.” I got away with it, I felt like I needed 12 other cohorts with whom to celebrate successfully pulling off the biggest heist ever! I envisioned myself eating my McGriddle with a sloppy George Clooney-esque grin on my face, driving into the sunset with Julia Roberts to my right and Brad Pitt in the back seat.
“Alright, so a 5 piece McNuggets with a Dr. Pepper, is that going to be all?” Wait, what? No! No, no, no. I could see her suppressing laughter, all her fellow workers stopped what they were doing to join in the secret hilarity.
“Um, no, I want the sausage egg and cheese McGriddle… the breakfast meal, but the Dr. Pepper part is right.” I added the last part so as to try and seem compromising. Sure, you got my order wrong, but not all of it, your only half of a fuck up.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but were not serving breakfast at this time.” I could envision her holding the mic away from her face and chortling with laughter, saying to herself, “I purposefully confused his gender”. She probably had buck teeth and a cleft palette.
“It’s only a few minutes, come on! Help a brotha out.” I was thinking there was a chance she was ethnic, especially considering the part of Fresno I was in. I knew only a few ebonics, but referring to myself as a ‘brotha’ was my ace.
“I’m sorry ma’am—er, sir, but its company policy.” She was curt, as if the joke was over and she was ready with Pepper Spray at window one if I got too feisty.
“Let me talk to your manager, maybe he has the ability to use his mind for more than just respiration.” I wasn’t going to take this shit, I called in the artillery and started thinking of bigger words to use in the argument that was sure to ensue.
“Your speaking to the manager, and she has the same mind as before.” Her tone dripped of spite.
“Oh good, same dumb bitch then?” Vocabulary fail.
“Excuse me sir?”
Let me talk to the clown! He’s in charge, he’ll give me my goddamned sandwich… whore!.” I didn’t know I was this high, things were getting too out of hand. I did what anybody with the reflexes of Jeff Gordon would do and slammed on my accelerator.
I didn’t hear what she replied back because I was already rounding turn one with my middle finger poised. I was ready to finally look into the eyes of the person who owned the voice I hated, and then tell her to fuck herself using my hand. 
I realized that this wasn’t going to be as dramatic as I had first thought because of the mini van at the next window still waiting for it’s food. Shit. I slammed on my breaks and avoided hitting the assumed asian in front of me, only to take away all menace from my emotional use of symbolism. I felt the burn of unheard laughter as I waited for access to the rest of the shopping center, I looked longingly towards the expanse of the parking lot, where democracy and liberty still existed in the form of Jack in the Box’s 24-hour breakfast deal.