Princess MoMo

I love McDonald’s.  In particular, I love the new Buffalo Ranch McChicken sandwich.  There’s just something about buffalo sauce that delights my oral kingdom.  Once upon a time (around November or December of 2013), I was driving home from the mall when the urge to order one of these delectable sandwiches struck me.  Luckily, there was a McDonald’s on my way home.  I pulled into the drive thru and placed my order.  When I reached the payment window, I looked at the cashier.  Perhaps subconsciously, he looked familiar.  I wondered what his story was.  I gave him my credit car and started inching away from the window when I heard him calling my name.  I instantly knew who it was.  Pint.  It was a specimen I met at the mall when I was 12.  (For more details on the story, click here.)  He asked me to drive back around the drive thru.  Obviously, I said no.  I then avoided that McDonald’s for several weeks…that is, until yesterday.

Again, on my way home, I fancied a Buffalo Ranch McChicken sandwich.  I figured it had been a few months and that my specimen of 17 years ago might not work there anymore.  But, as soon as I heard the voice emanating from the order screen, I knew that was not the case.  “Welcome to McDonald’s.  May I take your order?”  I replied, “I’ll have a Buffalo Ranch McChicken, please.”  Silence.  I sat patiently.  Eventually, I was asked to repeat my burdensome order of one sandwich.  “I’ll have a Buffalo Ranch McChicken, please.”  Silence.  Again, I was asked to repeat the cumbersome request.  I briefly glanced at the order on the screen to ensure accuracy and proceeded to the next window where I would be face to face with the specimen behind the screen.

As soon as he saw me, he said, “Let me get your info.”

Me: No.

Him: Why?

Me: We went through this several years ago.

Him: I was in the middle of something at the time and then I got locked up.  I just got out.  Let me get your info.

Me: No. What were you locked up for?

Him: Selling drugs.

Me: Well, welcome home.

[He handed me my credit card and I started inching away.]

Him: Come on, MoMo.  Let me get your info.

Me: No.

Then, the unthinkable happened.  I proceeded to the food retrieval window and was handed a bag that I anticipated would contain my beloved McChicken sandwich.  As I turned onto the main road, I unwrapped the goods only to find out it was bads!  Well, what did I see? A piece of cheese.  In case you don’t know, there’s no cheese in a Buffalo McChicken sandwich.  There is only supposed to be McChicken perfectly tossed in buffalo sauce with ranch dressing, topped with shredded lettuce.  And, then, it got worse.  I saw bacon.  I know what you’re probably thinking: “Yum, if not for producing bacon, then why do pigs exist?”  I disagree.  Bacon is not my friend.  I don’t hate it like I hate onions, but I certainly don’t like it like I like buffalo sauce.  And, disappointingly, there was no buffalo sauce involved in this sandwich.  But, I was hungry and I didn’t want to give Pint any mixed signals by going around the drive thru a second time.  So, I ate it.  I checked the receipt to confirm that I had placed the correct order (3 times, nonetheless).  The receipt had the correct sandwich listed on it.  Was placing the wrong sandwich in the bag a ploy aimed at having me turn around?  I report, you decide.