Packet o’ Wup-Ass

Growing up I moved around a lot. It’s not something the witness protection program wants me to talk about a whole bunch, but let’s just say I remember quite a few midnight car trips.

At 17, I recognized the fact that most places didn’t want to hire a kid whose last 6 employers thought he had “died” in an “accidental tool shed fire.” Plus, by the time I got good at something it was always time to “pack your bags we’re leaving, you’ve got 6 minutes…no you can’t bring Mr. Fluffer, he’s a liability…yes, I know that mobsters don’t usually kill rabbits, but if we take him with us someone might make the connection and remember what agent Brown said…’it’s always the little things that end up ----ing you over.’ “

So I had to figure out a job that no matter where my family was forcibly relocated willingly moved to, would be open to hiring a random kid with no previous work experience. What kind of place was in every town and hired dead beats like that?

Enter fast food chains.

By the time I was 24 I had worked in more than different grease ball establishments from Poughkeepsie to Portland (Oregon, as in I’ve travel83 ed the entire continental US working in fast food restaurants for those of you who really need to me spell it out for you). And by God…I WAS GOOD AT IT!!!! I could say “Do you wanna Super Size that” in 6 different languages as well as tell a Mexi Nugget’s age, down to the minute, just by smelling it!!! I could take accurate drive-thru orders hearing only every 8th word in addition to being able to tell customers “Yes, the chicken is free-range” with a straight face.

Perhaps my greatest attribute though, was my renowned knowledge of, and skill with, condiment packets. Be it ketchup or calamari sauce, mayonnaise or mayberry jelly; I knew them all by sight, smell, and texture. The mysteries of their chemical make-ups and atomic weights were all known to me, but it wasn’t until one fateful day last spring that I finally understood how valuable this knowledge truly was.

I was covering a graveyard shift at a Taco Bell in Duluth, MN so that the hottie cashier I’d been crushing on for the past month could keep her ultrasound appointment. I was doing what I usually do when business is slow (check for factory defects in the sporks), when two half-pint thugs rode in on there tricked out huffy’s, pedaling right up to the counter.

“Yo Dee-Nar,” The first 14 yr. old thug addressed my co-worker at the cash register, whose name was actually pronounced ‘Deh-Nuh,’ but the obviously the subtleties of the Armenian language were lost to these two miscreants. ”I want four Chulupas and three Nachos Belgrande, el pronto!”

“And two orders of Tater Tots!” The slightly more rotund side kick chimed in.

“They’re called ‘Mexi Nuggets.’” Denaire patiently explained to them.

Resembling a pug who thinks it’s an alligator, the first punk responded “Your mom is a Mexi Nugget!!!”

This retort was followed by high pitched pre-pubescent laughter and a ridiculously over dramatized high five from the fat one.

After receiving their food, the two Linkin’ Park rejects proceeded to pedal over to the soft drink dispenser and combine every soda flavor available (yes, including the ice tea). This was followed by a raid on the napkin, straw, and utensil containers where each took multiple fistfuls.

I grew tense as they wheeled their way towards my position now at the condiment dispensery. I could feel the rage inside me building like a zit that was over-due for a popping. These two bike riding tards had committed a myriad of offenses from insulting my co-worker to riding their bikes in the business place (each clearly grounds for refusing service as set forth in the Taco Bell Employee Handbook). Yet, all of these infractions I could let slide. However, there is one infringement I will not abide and that is exploitation of the condiment dispensery!

I slowly moved aside, allowing the mini-thugs access to Taco Bell’s above average selection of sauces and dressings, tracking both carefully with my 20/80 vision. As I suspected, the first animal-torturer-in-training reached his dirty little paw into the “Hot Sauce” bin and withdrew upwards of 20 packets, clearly a gross exploitation of Taco Bell’s condiment generosity. Something inside me snapped and before I could stop myself I had grabbed the bike urchin’s hand.

“S’cuse me son,” I said in my best, I’m-gonna-belt-you parent voice. “I think you meant to grab the mild sauce.”

This bombshell of a confrontation to his barely measurable masculinity immediately played across the punk’s face in several emotions which I detected as shock, anger, and slight arousal (I was still gripping his hand). Then he took a swing at me with his free fist. Luckily, his short 14 yr. old arm made it easy to step beyond his 18 inch reach.

I countered with an open palm of ketchup packets to his face, applying just enough force to make sure each exploded upon contact with his pimply skin. The effect was what appeared to be a blow of such awesome might that it exploded the front half of his skull…at least this is what his pudgy friend told the cops later that night.

But I digress.

Upon seeing “blood” erupt from his miscreant buddy’s face, and then collapse to the floor (apparently my “ketchup-fist” as I like to call it, actually had enough umpf to knock the kid down where he cracked his head on the floor and went unconscious), urchin #2 jumped on his bike and attempted to pedal towards the exit, dropping his food in the process. Before he could make it more than 2 ft. I deftly let fly two packets of patented Taco Bell hot sauce managing to lodge both in the spokes of his getaway vehicle. This resulted in an immediate cease of the bike’s forward motion, thus propelling tubby over the handle bars and onto a double long table used for families of more than 5.

Casually walking over to the dazed butterball, I picked up his discarded order of food and said…

“You forgot your Mexi Nuggets, bee-otch!” …and proceeded to dump them on this head.

It wasn’t until later that night in lock-up (something about assaulting a minor…I dunno, I was too busy bragging about how I owned those two little punks to the hottie motorcycle cop that showed up) that I realized the true meaning of the night’s events. No mere mortal could have done what I did. Indeed, I had been blessed with a rare and powerful ability. And of course with any great power came the great responsibility to use it on stupid dumb---- kids so that fast-food establishments across the nation could be safe for normal patrons.

It was then I knew my calling. I would not rest until every punk came to fear the name, PACKETMAN!!!