A colleague of mine, Eric, and I were talking about the usual random, disjointed, anecdotes and theories when he mentioned he used to work at McDonald’s, like a large number of the youth population did at one point.
Everyone who works there seems to have their own distinct “McTerror” story. He is no exception.
He proceeded to tell me of a time during a particularly busy spell when he sliced open his index finger, I believe while chopiing some lettuce. Being ever diligent, he promptly wrapped the julienned digit in some paper towel, so as not to disrupt the rhythm of his fellow Mcworkers.
Despite his best efforts to maintain the frantic pace of the assembly line, the no-doubt masterfully attached paper-towel slipped off his finger, and globules of his blood neatly deposited themselves on the tartar sauce atop the filet-o-fish he was assembling.
He turned briefly to re-bandage his finger, then turned back to discard the tainted sandwich, which was no longer there.
Eric: “Hey, Luke, where’s the Filet-O-Fish that was right here?”
Luke: “Oh, we served that sandwich.”
Whatever the implications of Luke’s error, health risks aside, and whether or not the customer tasted the extra iron, Eric and I agree on one thing:
Serves you right for ordering a Filet-O-Fish.