Chipotle Mexican Grill
I’m a busser. That’s what I do. That means I clean things. I pick things up. I make the place look pretty. I’m Chipotle’s beautification committee. Committee of one.
So. When I see a bag of Chipotle chips on the ground outside of the restaurant near the trash can, I don’t automatically think “You know, these chips probably belong to that blonde headed 40-year-old four tables away from the location where I’m standing.”
No lady. That thought is not instantaneous. Not even a little bit. LITERALLY SO FAR FROM MY FIRST THOUGHT.
The thought – that a normal human being has when she sees this bag of chips – is “Oh. These chips are on the ground. They are probably not someone’s because….THEY ARE ON THE GROUND.”
You say “OH MY GAHD!!!! ARE YOU SERIOUS? YOU JUST THREW AWAY MY CHIPS. THOSE WERE MY CHIPS!”
You just don’t say those things about a bag of chips on the ground.
First of all, if you were so worried about said chips, like they were your own kin, why didn’t you pick them up before you sat down and made it seem as if these were abandoned chips. These were orphan chips. These did not belong to you at that time. They belonged to THE GROUND.
THESE CHIPS WERE ANNIE ONCE THEY HIT THE FLOOR.
Second of all, you do not have the right to yell at me like I just took a bite out of your flesh. I did not eat your skin. Stop yelling like that’s what I am doing.
Or I’ll do it.
And to the three kids that screamed “NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!” as they watched me pick up the chips and throw them in the trash where they belong because they were ON THE GROUND – you suck.
You made the situation a lot more dramatic than it needed to be. For a second, I thought I was throwing away someone’s labradoodle INSTEAD OF FRIED. CORN. Your unwarranted yelling heightened whatever emotion that lady already had and made everyone outside of the restaurant look directly at me. You directed 40 eyes. At my face. And it was you who summoned the chip demon.
YOU BROUGHT HER OUT FROM THE DEPTHS OF HELL. HER POWER STEMS FROM YOUR DEVOTION.
And I’m obviously flustered because, I’m pretty sure I just killed a cheetah pup. You have the nerve lady to raise your hands up in the air like you’re at a church sermon and someone just put on your favorite Christian rock single.
But this time, it is not your jam. It’s the chips. And your face clearly says “I WAS GONNA EAT THOSE. YOU’RE SO STUPID.”
Like I can’t go inside and retrieve another bag of chips for you.
Like we just sold all of the chips in the entire restaurant.
LIKE YOUR CHIPS WERE THE SECRET TO AN ETERNITY OF YOUTH AND I JUST THREW THEM AWAY.
“Uhm. I can go get you another bag.”
And you sit, acting as if this cannot possibly remedy the situation. As if there is no redemption from the horrible deed I have done.
I go inside. And get your chips. Second guessing my bag choice hoping they are up to your chip standards and bring them to you quickly; you respond with a thank you.
And then the ground crumbled beneath my feet and I fell 50 leagues through molten lava to your fire den where I’ll spend the rest of my life as your chip slave.
I see this worked out for all of us.