A lonely drive through Checkers

I no longer eat at Checkers.

It’s officially over.

I pronounced our long-standing relationship over at about 2 p.m. this past Sunday.

So long, double champ with cheese.

I know what you’re thinking: He finally realized how terrible the food is. Incorrect. I’ve known for the past 10 years how awful their food is. I still eat it. I’m not sure what they salt their fries with, but I’m pretty sure it’s crack.

The reason I stopped eating at Checkers is because of it’s twin drive-thru. I always get baited into going through the unorthodox left-side drive thru where the cashier's window is on the other side of my car. With no passenger in my car it becomes a lonely moment.

Adversity strikes the moment I pull up to the window. I immediately realize the roof of my car blocks my view of the person serving me.

The cashier asks me how I’m doing and I have to twist my head down toward the gear shift to get a glimpse of his face. My contoured body now resembles Corky from the TV show "Life Goes On."

Turns out I could have skipped the exercise altogether. The cashier's face is wide, his glasses large and his overall appearance unsightly.

Now I must exhibit the flexibility of 2004 U.S. Olympic gymnastics gold medalist Paul Hamm as I lean across the passenger seat and attempt to stick money out the passenger window while keeping my right foot on the break. Unless you are Manute Bol and possess a 7-foot wingspan, this task is impossible.

At best you can reach the plane of your open window. It's at this moment I become concerned about how my seat belt is cutting off the circulation to my lower extremeties. My change comes back and I return to my normal, upright position. (Note: If any change spills onto the curb, you can forget cracking your door and looking for it).

I now sit waiting for my chili dog and 32-oz Moutain Dew Code Red, which will served to me in an official NASCAR souvenir cup. This excites me.

I glance back inside the window. The Checker’s kitchen looks more cramped than the Keebler Elves treehouse. Except this isn’t a cool fucking treehouse. It’s the kitchen of a fast food restaurant. That is depressing.

I receive my chili dog and 32-oz NASCAR souvenir cup filled with Mountain Dew Code Red from my headless server. I lean downard to ask my cashier one final question and throw my back out in the process.

"Does it bother you when cars without passengers come through here," I ask.

"No," he says.

I am now humiliated, alone and nursing a wicked hernia.

Fuck you, Checkers.

FOR FUN: Next time you order fries at the drive thru, ask if each fry can be placed in it's own separate carton.