I don’t know where you are in the world, or what you do. It doesn’t matter to me. Everyone who passes through that door is the same. The fate of your burrito rests in my hands. Only it’s not fate. Fate is predetermined. I am more powerful than fate. I wield the meat spoon.
Call it chicken, call it pollo, I don’t care, but respect the process. I possess the instrument that determines whether your burrito is delicious and satisfying, or lackluster. The quality of your meal rests in the very palm of my hand. I have many options: half scoop, three quarters, full scoop, double scoop (gratis). I could go on. I wield the meat spoon.
Go ahead, tell my manager I three-quarter-scooped you. You were indecisive regarding black or pinto beans. There is an order to things. I’ve toiled on the burrito line three years. I never call in sick, I am never late, I do not complain. I will be here tomorrow. And the next day. I wield the meat spoon.
Is that a frown? How about an extra scoop of rice? Enjoy it. We might still have room for a few morsels of steak. You like that? You happy? You made that decision yourself. I simply honored your choice. Actions have consequences. I am the consequences. I wield the meat spoon.
If you care anything for yourself, and by extension, your burrito, come prepared, and come with reverence. Maybe you should try writing it all down. The burrito line is no place for deliberation, for I will not deliberate before giving you a pygmy pinch of barbacoa should you tarry too long in your protein selection. I wield the meat tongs as well. One must be versatile. I am all things. I am one thing. I wield the meat spoon.
We cannot be friends. We need not be foes. There is you, there is me, there is your burrito. That is the dynamic. Any power you possess filters through me. The sooner you accept this, the happier you will be. I don’t know where you are in the world, or what you do. It doesn’t matter to me. I wield the meat spoon.
Sorry, no Sofritas at this location. Get the fuck out of line, vegan.