BurgerThing

This qualifies as news. Here's the backstory....
I went to sleep. That was two hours ago, at eleven. Hunter, meanwhile, wandered off to BurgerThing #1996 at 12119 East Mississippi [303-366-0441] to find food.
Now, I know what you're thinking. Why would anyone go to BurgerThing on purpose. In this case, it was walking distance for her. And the Chinese place nearby, S.typhi R Us, wasn't really a viable option.
She got back at noon, waking me up [never do that, by the way] to tell me that she'd just been accused of assault and battery by the manager of BurgerThing #1996.
Realise that my first thought when I wake up after far more than an hour is usually who in hell am I. So trying to download this information felt like trying to download a .sit file from a GeoCities site. At dusk. And I don't even have a Mac in this town.
So I got up. Found shoes. Found brush. Found little real purpose for brush. Contemplated haircuts. Contemplated hair transplants from someone not English so I might be able to wake up someday without looking like Howard Stern got put away wet. Remembered why I was up at all. Drove to BurgerThing #1996.
I went inside. Hunter wanted to stay outside, but I didn't think I'd get a lot of answers from anyone if I didn't know what was going on, or whom I was supposed to find out from. So Hunter followed me in.
That's when we encountered the chick who turned into a grape in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. You can settle your bets now: she never got better.
This purple behemoth instantly starts in with this sanctimonious, bombastic, and incomprehensibly choppy Engrish at me. She actually 'reminded' me that she'd already told me that we weren't allowed in this place.
I've never seen this creature before in my life. If I'd had, I'd never have managed to sleep for as long as an hour before waking up to wonder what follicular deity I'd pissed off in a former existence.
I asked it what it was talking about.
It told me that we--Hunter and I--had been kicked out for assaulting and battering the manager.
When the hell was this? And why wasn't I told that I'd beat someone up? I hate it when I miss these things.
About a month ago. Which is impressive. The last time I was in that building was in July. I hadn't been in a big hurry to go back, because the Whopper I'd got failed to have any meat in it.
Whether Hunter returning to the counter in July to ask if she could have a Whopper with more than a hamburger bun to it constitutes this Bonnie&Clyde Federal Crime rap which allegedly occurred a month ago is my current question. Well: one of them.
It was simpler--at the time--to ask whom we'd allegedly beat up.
The Purple PeterEater evaded the question; instead, it reiterated how much we weren't allowed in there, because all she knew was that we'd beat up the manager.
Oddly, I believed her. I have a measurable level of faith in the assertion that all she knows is that. And I'm not the least bit surprised to work out that the one thing she knows is false.
Which was too wordy to go into with this plebeian. Instead, I ordered: 'WHO!'
Which--and understand that the Bugblatter Beast of Traal here easily outweighed me two to one--which caused her to get the same look that the police commissioner got on his face in The January Man, and inspired this obstreperous diatribe about how little right I had to raise my voice.
After all: I've merely been libelled by a representative of PepsiCo. Arrogant me.
And it was libel. The entire thing was being recorded by the security camera. The same one, in fact, which must have filmed us beating the living shit out of the other manager a month ago. Which means I won't have missed that part after all, once they furnish me with a copy of this evidence to dodge my forthcoming lawsuit against all things Pepsi.
But I'm getting ahead of the story.
'Then answer the question,' I told it; 'Whom did we assault and batter.'
This, she apparently didn't know. This extended beyond her phalanx of tidbits which includes, and is limited to, the false information that Hunter and I have recently crippled a BurgerThing manager.
To prove that she didn't know anything more [beyond myriad assertions that all she knew was that we'd beat this guy up and been arrested, or something], she turned to this little Weeble and started questioning it in Spanish.
I, of course, didn't really catch that part. I never really bothered to learn Spanish. Mostly because I never really bothered to live in Fucking Spain.
The Weeble CounterSpained something; the Eggplant That Jenny Craig Forgot AntiCounterSpained, and then turned to me with that bovine look as if to say See? There it is.
By this point, I was awake. I told it to write down whatever it was whimpering about so I'd have some idea exactly what this libel was. It waddled off and returned with--and I couldn't make this up--a sheet of typing paper and a Number Two Pencil. She set them down in front of me with that awed look of one who knows that someone's about to make fire when said onlooker always thought that only deities could do that.
Writer though I am, it wasn't my turn. I explained that to her. Again. Write down whatever you're blathering about.
But she couldn't do that. Because [everyone: in chorus] all-she-knows-is-we're-kicked-out-for-beating-up-the-manager.
Ha-cha-cha....
I gave up. I asked this anomaly what its name was. It looked to the Weeble.
'Your name.'
Now...had I not seen this creature with my own injured eyes, I'd have found it perfectly fitting to learn that its name was Yvonne. Until an hour ago, I might have assumed that only the French could inadvertantly accomplish so convoluted a Lucy Skit as this was. But I saw the bloody manatee and it was in no way French. I'm not sure exactly what it really was--Martian, perhaps; but not French.
Sure, the French are rude and arrogant. But they have good food. And I'm at BurgerThing. Not French.
That much worked out as well as it was going to be before I got a headache from talking all vernacular-like, we left.
I came back home, hit BurgerKing.com, found nothing resembling a customer service number, and instead called a different BurgerThing to ask for one.
'Hello? BurgerKing.'
'Hi,' says I, 'I'm actually wondering if you have a customer service number; I ran into a problem at a different BurgerThing and I'm trying to find someone corporate to talk to.'
'Hello?'
'Hi. What's your customer service number.'
'It's 303-344-1336.'
No: that's your number; I know; I just called it. What's the number for customer service.'
Oh. Try 303-366-0441. Ask for Bob.'
'Okay.'
I rang off, called 303-366-0441, and got Bob. First try. Lucky me.
In fairness, Bob was likeable. For example: his name was Bob. He spoke that dying language of English. Okay: he spoke American. But I can speak that as a second language, so we were okay.
'Hi,' says I, again, to Bob this time, 'I'm actually looking for customer service.'
'I can help you.'
'Okay. This is weird. I've been out of town for a while, and I just came from BurgerThing Number nineteen ninety-six at twelve one nineteen East Mississippi. Some creature called Yvonne--'
'What?' Bob groaned. My impression was that this wasn't the first time someone had encountered Yvonne just before encountering Bob.
'Yvonne. Apparently one of the managers there. She told me that I'd been kicked out of the store for beating up a different manager a month ago. When I wasn't in town. While I was refraining from beating people up elsewhere.
'Which store was this?'
'Nineteen ninety-six. On East Mississippi.
'Oh. Okay. Can I get your name and number? I'll find out what's up and get back to you. It's the middle of lunch here.'
'Yeah. That's why I wanted customer service.'
'There really isn't any. These are all franchises. But I can help you. If I can get your name and number, I'll give you a call back at about one.'
I gave him my name and number. He repeated back the number well enough; although my name is apparently Dylan now....
And that was that. Now, it's one thirty. And I'm waiting to hear back from Bob about Yvonne so I can ascertain whether I'll be getting a copy of this video proving that I beat up a manager a month ago, an out-of-court settlement for half a million bucks [the usual ceiling corporations will pay off before deciding that going to court is worth the risk], or what.
Meanwhile, I'll upload this. Of course, there will be more information once I have it from Bob.

Bob called me back at three. By then, we were at BestBuy, grabbing various games for the GameCube.
If you don't have one of these things yet: go get one. It's impressive. The last time I saw Nintendo beat the competition this hard, they were up against Intellivision.
Lucky for me, I got one of the silver ones. If I'd got one of the purple ones, I suppose Hunter would have beat it to death for being the same colour as that humpback Yvonne.
The bad news, of course, is that the CubeShark still isn't out yet. Which means I had to beat Resident Evil and Resident Evil Zero without cheating. What a hassle.
Anyway. Bob called back to tell me that BurgerThing#1996 is owned and operated by Mike Kutch [I think that's how it's spelled; I know it's pronounced kootch; I won't go into the obvious on this one; yet] who runs the Denver Restaurant Something. I wrote it down on a BestBuy warranty; I'll figure out where I put it and call him tomorrow.
For now--notwithstanding that little slice of sleep I almost got back at noon--I've been up since Saturday morningish. It's now ten Monday night. So I'll get to Mike and my new games [not necessarily in that order] sometime after I wake up.
More later....
--Gremlin
 
 
 

[Old News] [Back to Main]