So, I'm standing near the pick up counter at sheetz, waiting for my chicken sandwich (as one does). I notice a man approaching the order kiosk. Average build, shorts, blue polo, flip flops, probably mid 40s.

The kind of guy you wouldn't be surprised to see (1/5)

Pacing the fence line of a little league game telling at the kids.

Anyway he saunters up, and starts his order. He's tapping the screen confidently.

Boom, salad.

Boom, mocha latte.

Boom, chicken kids meal.

"yeah, feeding my family, bitch." (2/5)

But then. The train starts teetering on the track, and this beast of confidence pauses on the hotdog screen.

Where there used to be a choice between 1 and 4 hotdogs, our champion faces a choice between 1 and 10 hotdogs.

His finger hovers above the 2 button. It's the safe, (3/5)

Familiar choice. Two dogs, some Heinz 56,some French's, maybe some Kraut if he feels like giving the wife the ol business with a cheeky Dutch oven later.

I can see him starting to sweat, though. The temptation, the untested waters, the dreams of coney Island... (4/5)

He glances around, his oakleys steaming up with anticipatory hot breaths from under his Pittsburgh steelers face mask.

And then the bastard does it. His finger flits away from the 2 and firmly, confidently mashes 8, with Kraut.

Washail, you glorious son of a bitch.

(fin)