Thought Clearinghouse of Southern Encounters these Past Weeks

Nashville Style Sightings:

• Flip-flops & skinny jeans (on mens)
• Pigtails on grown women (mostly braided)
• Gladiator sandals & short shorts on women (seen across US, really)
• Chewing tobacco – spit in tall bottles (much like Fowlerville circa 1992)
• Jager shots. Ice cold.

Best Overheard Fast-Food Patron Confrontation/Instructions:

I was inside a Chik-Fil-A on a weekday evening last week. There were four customers  - two dining-in and two, including me,  in line - in the store and five workers running themselves peanut-greased-haggard to fill the orders from the 6,000 people in the drive-through. And you know people unwilling to get out of their cars at 8:45pm on a Thursday evening are either; wearing stanky stanky PJ’s, harboring a refugee or kidnapped child, or starting on second supper. Either way, it’s not your hello, good-morning breakfast biscuit crowd.

I could tell my cashier gal was already having a rough shift when a big ol hungry mamma (in group three of the above mentioned possibilities) comes busting through the door holding a crumpled take-out bag in one hand and a XL box of ChikFilA waffle fries. She shoves the box of fries past the face of an innocent woman trying to place an order, until it reaches just under the nose of the other friendly ChickFilA cashier on duty.

“Y’all put cold fries in my bag.” It already sounds threatening-- like maybe somebody is already kilt somebody’s cousin. The cashier doesn’t say anything but grabs another box from under the heat lamp and gives it over to Two-Dinner Twanda.

“Awwww naw.” Twanda hits the new fries, “Naw, these are cold too.” She looks over at me. I try to concentrate on my Coke Zero and hope that I will sill get my extra pickles in spite of all the mayhem.

“Naw, these are COLD TOO. I know y’all got some hot fries back derre.”

Now all of us, including the backstage workers, are nervous. I’m nervous because I hope they have enough waffle fries to fill my order and they are nervous because there are strict regulations about how hot you can serve food (– and probably how forcefully you can restrain a customer) .

The red light finally comes up near the fryer and a new red box of XL Waffle Fries is produced and placed in Twanda’s hands.

She smiles. Holds the box in her left hand and slaps the other side with her right. I hope a golden waffle doesn’t fall out. I don’t want this to get obscene.

“That’s what um sayin’” She says. Slap. Slap. “Hot thru the BOX!”

We all look over at her. All of us from the fryer to the dryer.

“Hot thru THE BOX!!” She says again and hugs her crumpled drive-through bag and leaves ten percent slower than she came in.

The cashier that had given her the fries looks at my cashier and says, “My pleasure.”

I get my food and wait until I get in the car to feel the side of my fry box and they are, indeed, Hot right thru da BOX!

 

**Check out THIS ARTICLE on “The Cult of Chik-Fil-A”

Cultural/Arts Conversations Lost in Translation:

• Musm = Museum
• Dult = Adult
• TheeeYAYter = Theater
• Sack = Bag (leanrt from cute old lady buying her teen grandkid a stack of “Twilight” books “I don’t need a sack.”)

Randomly and Additionally:

• There are 52 comments on an article about a rumor about Jon & Kate (reality show stars) getting a divorce and 8 comments about Korea nuking Hawaii.
• Check out THIS CAKE. 2+Die+4. That is what I want for my birthday – which is coming up soon. The sun just entered Cancer. Rococococo!