Have a Nice Day.
There are times when a bag of chips is just the job. And when accompanied by the mandatory scraps, peas, salt and malt vinegar there is nothing finer in our humble opinion. You know where you are with chips: some sweaty, fat bloke invariably called Dave, chucking chipped potatoes into hot oil. Job done. No farting about. Then some 15 year old sallow young girl with an uninterested look heaving them into a polystyrene tray. Mesmerising stuff.
But it’s not good enough for all these modern types. No. They want some bollocksy old American burger with Thousand Islands Dressing, pickles, lollo-rosso lettuce, rabbit’s spleen and a splash of our very own, extra-cheesy, cheese by-product. Or a half chicken with our own chemically based, horse-flesh marinade in a whopping, flame grilled bun manufactured in Tunisia to our own ten day old recipe. Or a baguette with a million different choices of urine enhanced splodge of something similar to salad with water filled plastic substitute pig. Or Chinese cardboard strips of shoe leather in globules of reheated sputum with Agent Orange additives and deep fried mechanically rendered beef strippings.
But the cloned servers say “have a nice day” so it’s lovely. Allegedly.