Order for me. Ever. No way. Unless I am two seconds from wetting my pants and I yell over my shoulder as I run to the bathroom, "Hey, get me a sweet tea, k?" You may feel free to open doors for me and pop the tabs on my Dr. Pepper cans so I don't chip my Lincoln Park After Dark, but that'll do it. Ordering for me makes me feel like the third wife in some twisted Mormon polygamy hexagon. No thank you.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
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4 comments:
But I thought the workers at Chick-fil-A start to get your order ready when they see you coming?
Touche. Ha ha. But that's different! It's not a creepy dude placing an order for me at an actual restaurant.
I agree totally--I think speaking for me is the opposite of respectful. And it's made even creepier when the guy says, "The lady will have..." Blech!
You crack me up!! I love it!
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