"I'm Allergic to Ranch"
Okay. How to put this without sounding like a maniac?
I’m at work last night, slinging booze to the impulse control impaired, just like normal. Late at night, my last possible food order comes in. It’s a plate of nachos (yes, I do hate my job). The young man in question, let us call him Yahoo (pronounced YAY-hoo), refused to accept said plate. “What can I do to fix this?” I ask.
“I din’‘t know all this stuff came on it,” said Yahoo.
“It is listed on the menu. If you’d like, I’d be happy to get this order the way you’d like it.”
“Naw. I don’t want it like this. Ain’t there no beef?”
“We don’t have that on our menu,” I said. “Would you like chicken, perhaps?”
“Naw.” A moment’s silence, then Yahoo points at the toppings on said plate of cheese and chips. “I don’t want this stuff.“
“Okay, then.” At this point I just want Yahoo to go away. Preferably to Hell. Preferably to Hell at the end of a shotgun I’ve just fired. “Is there maybe something else I can get for you?”
We’ll leave out the following exchange. It makes me vomit a little in my mouth. Suffice to say that Yahoo ordered a plat of wings, a.k.a. deep fried chicken bits, a.k.a. the crap they couldn’t sell before they boiled it in margarine and Tabasco (subtext: do NOT eat those things).
The wings done arroved. I set them down. “Anything else I can get for you?” I ask, all helpful, swallowing the fact that I just threw away a perfectly good plate of food to make this fucktard happy, and ate the cost thereof besides.
“What’s this?” asked Yahoo, pointing at the ramikin of ranch dressing that comes with an order of wings.
“It’s ranch, ” I said. “It comes with the wings,” I said. “Just like it says on the menu,” I said. “Just like every other place in the world,” I said.
“I don’t want it,” said Yahoo. “I’m allergic to ranch.”
“Allergic to ranch?” I said. “Really.“
Here it is.
Wait for it.
Ready?
Okay.
There is a vast difference, Yahoo, between the concepts of allergic to and adverse to. What has happened here is that you are adverse to ranch dressing. As well you should be. The stuff is bird crap. Would you like to see a recipe? Here it is:
1/2 gallon mayonnaise
1/2 gallon buttermilk
salt
monosodium glutamate
onion powder, garlic powder, and dried parsley to taste
Well, I certainly want to puke! Mmm, suckling at the teat of the mayonnaise beast! With a facial of heavily salted buttermilk! Oh, God, YES!
At any rate, Yahoo tipped like a punk-ass, but did remind me that every word in the English language has a distinct meaning, and that those who misuse meaning through ignorance or direct intent should be boiled alive in margarine. Which you shouldn’t eat anyway, because it’ll kill you faster than cheating on a Russian mafia princess.
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