So K and I are chilling at In-n-Out visiting her sister, enjoying ourselves a fresh burger, delicious chocolate milkshakes, and cheese fries, when the Dursleys arrive. They waddle in, Mr. Dursley a dirty brown dust broom below his nose, hair to match, and rosy cheeks. His wife, Paula, wears round owl glasses from which a blank but avaricious stare emerges. As she eyes the fries swimming in the oil cookers in the back, Mr. Dursley begins an order. But it is extremely complicated. I notice they take well over six minutes to place an order for two meals. The reason? First, they want a number one, then they want cheese fries instead of normal fries. THen, instead of paying for extra cheese, they just want the cheese from the cheeseburger to be placed on the fries. THen instead of that, they want just an order of cheese fries with the meal. But then they want.. and so on and so forth.
They get their order and sit down. It must have been under ten dollars. Then, it dawns on Mr. Dudley that he may have been overcharged. He takes his receipt to the counter and points out that he ordered a combo meal, with cheese fries, and not cheese fries extra. The manager points out that the combo meal is just the drink, burger and fries combined: there is no discount, the price is on the board for convenience. He starts squawking about extra cheese this and extra cheese charged on that, and he is informed that they were in fact only charged one order of fries, but that the cheese does cost extra. He is incensed. Outraged. Flabbergasted. Air escapes loudly from his rotund, trans-fatuated self. Impossible he says. An extra DOLLAR FOR CHEESE ON THE FRIES? Little does he know, but the rest of our fast food nation also conspires against him: A cheeseburger, does in fact, cost more than a hamburger. “Well if I only would have been told I NEVER, EVER would have ordered cheese fries. But MY mistake it’s totally MY fault. I WILL NEVER ORDER CHEESE FRIES AGAIN!” HIs advice is meant for the entire restaurant. It’s meant for all french-frykind.
Only two minutes pass by when Mrs. Dudley steps to the counter. She brings her cardboard hopper of fries, the cheese almost all but devoured. “Excuse me, could you please warm this up for me? The cheese is cold.” The manager, the nice man he is, disposes of the remaining fries and places a new order in a new hopper, with TWO, yes Two pieces of cheese on it. Most cheese lovers would bless his name for the act. Not Paula. “Could you maybe put one more eincy weeincy bit of cheese on there for me please?” K, the manager, and I all share the same sentiment. What greasy audacity she has! What kind of passion and, dare I say, addiction would drive such an one to pursue her treasure so courageously. Mrs. Dudley exemplified this super-sized character for a worthy prize: processed American Cheese.
“I’m sorry, but we would have to charge you extra for the extra cheese,” says the manager. K and I expected her to whip out her plastic and swipe it faster than getting a Jimmy Johns sub from the drive-thru. But then, from the back of the restaurant, Mr. Dudley yells, “DON’T YOU DARE, PAULA.” Paula sheepishly nods and whispers, “Okay.” We all can relate to her disappointment. She takes her new hopper of cheesy mc-cheese fries back to her husband, and they haughtily finish their meals. Oh, the injustice. All the while, K and I snigger and laugh at the scene unfolded.