The Sorceress of Sprite

Around lunchtime the other day I drove to Burger King (or as Stuttering Abbie calls it, “Bur-gink-er…shit!”) to grab a quick bite to eat. I pull up to the menu, survey my drink options, and decide on orange soda. Only I calls it Minute Maid. After years of servers invariably asking “You mean Hi-C? Or do you want orange juice?” you’d think I would give in and refer to it as “orange soda” or even “orange drink.” But the menu said “Minute Maid,” and so do I.

“Welcome to Burger King, would you like to try our Whopper Value Meal today?”

“Nope, I’ll have a double cheeseburger, plain, with a Minute Maid, please.”

“You want a Hi-C?”

*Goddammit…*

“Ah, no, sorry, Minute Maid Orange.”

“We don’t have Minute Maid Orange.”

Bullshit. I’ve had it here before. It says “Minute Maid Orange Soda” on the menu. It has the logo and everything. I swear to God I’ve had it here before. I come here a couple of times a month and get it every time. Am I at the right Burger King? Am I even at Burger King? I bet the guy behind me is furious. “What’s taking this dickhead so long?” he’s thinking. “It’s supposed to be FAST food…it’s a burger joint, the menu never changes!” My thoughts exactly.

“Uhhhh, Sprite then, please.”

I drive my bewildered ass up to the window and peer inside the restaurant. The first things I see are the soda fountain and the words “Fanta Orange.” Seriously?

I used to be a dick to people in the service industry. Then I married one (a person in the service industry, not a dick). Since then I have been extra conscious of how I treat servers, cashiers, prostitutues, etc. I have even done my best to eliminate the “No wonder they’re working at Burger King” attitude, but this lady was pushing it. Maybe she thought I was extremely brand loyal or that I was a picky prick. Those close to me might say I’m both, but I don’t know this bitch and she don’t know me. Anyway, when she comes to the window, I says to her, “Oh, could I get a Fanta instead of the Sprite?”

She stops what she is doing, looks me square in the eyes, and snaps, “I already made the Sprite.”

Had I not been so astounded by her ability to “make Sprite” I would have told her “Well fuckin’ pour it out!” Instead I sat there like a slack-jawed idiot until my food came.

The moral of the story is: Don’t anger Burger King’s drink magicians. And by “drink magicians” I mean “lazy motherfuckers.”