At the sight of that big, yellow, lowercase “m” stretching into the beautiful blue sky, they can’t resist the Pavlovian response. Like frantic moths to a porchlight, they are drawn to the parking lot entrance, and with gurgling tummies and drooling face-holes they approach the door, blankly staring at the sign, struggling to understand that simple word, “closed.”
Others attempt to pull into the drive-thru, ignorant of what the orange road cones blocking their path might mean.
“Gasp! What is this, an obstacle course placed before me on the pathway to my artery-clogging consumables?”
Like rats in a maze, they accept the challenge, drive through them, around them, even over them to place their order at the speaker. No response from the magic box they bark at is forthcoming.
No.
No cheese for you, mousey motherfucker. Not tonight.
Take your bloated ass home and stick a burrito in the microwave or something.
Chronicles of a Madman. 