So I’m a little worried about the future of America. It seems all our intelligent kids want to be doctors, teachers, lawyers or drunk-naked-and-tattooed reality show stars instead of what this country really needs.

Fast Aood Managers.

Life with Mike:

When I was a kid, my older brother was a fast-food manager who took great pride in his work. He even won a brass spatula with his name and "Employee of The Year" lasered on it. And when I accidentally blackened that brass spatula by sticking it in a light socket one day, he used it to beat me with great determination, which proved he loved his work.

(Don’t feel sorry, though: An older brother who listens to Flock of Seagulls can’t dish out much of a beating.)

I know there are good fast-food workers out there. But when Wifey and I dined in at a popular joint last weekend, all the good workers must have called in sick.

We placed a simple order.

No receipt.

Following a five-minute troubleshooting analysis that included tapping the drum solo to "Wipeout" on every single button of the debit card machine, the otherwise kind worker made an astonishing discovery.

No receipt paper.

Luckily, there was nearby a woman wearing a really big headset and button-up shirt, not just a polo. It’s common knowledge that the bigger the headset and the more buttons you have, the higher up you are in a food chain’s food chain.

I didn’t have a notebook handy, so the following are close-but-not-exact quotes of what happened next.

Counter guy: "Hey, manager lady, we’re out of receipt paper, which is why I’m yelling at you as if my hair were on fire! Can you help me?"

Higher-up: "Hey, Dufus. Can’t you see my neck is tired from holding up this headset? Just add receipt paper."

Counter guy: "From where?"

Higher-up: "From the big box marked ‘receipt paper.’ "

Three hours later, we still were waiting for our receipt and baked potato.

"Here’s your burger," a worker said as she walked up from the kitchen area, plopping the foil-wrapped heap of meat on our tray.

"No, we didn’t order that, we’re waiting for a baked potato."

"Whatever. The computer above me that runs off Microsoft Windows ’77 says this is your burger. It’s never wrong."

"No, we already have our burgers. Our last order is for a baked potato."

"Look, I changed your order. I slaved over this burger for a good 15 seconds, so I don’t care who takes it, just take it."

Then another worker came to the front and actually asked a customer in line: "Hey, can you tell that lady at that table her order is ready."

She then turned around and left, I assume to find a bigger headset and take over control of the store.

After we finally got our order and ate, we thought an ice cream for the road would be nice. We ordered and it came quickly.

But the ice cream treat was the same consistency and temperature as chicken broth, minus the hearty feeling.

That was the last straw for Wifey and me. I pulled the fire alarm as she hopped on top of the counter and shouted into a megaphone: "NO ONE ORDER THE ICE CREAM!!! IT’S HORRIBLE!!! THE FOOD IS WORSE!!! GET OUT OF THIS STORE AS SOON AS YOU CAN!!!"

Then we went home and vowed never to eat there again.

At least not until they fix the ice cream machine.

Via: Local News