Proof That I Should Give Up on Ever Eating Outside of My Home, Ever

Scene: Wendy’s Drive Thru, spitting distance from the interstate, on the way back from a patient visit very far from my office. Mama Snee orders a veggie sandwich (regular sandwich-type stuff without meat) with “everything,” which apparently meant “without ketchup, mustard, or mayo”:

I pulled up to the window and the Wendy’s kid says to me, “Are you vegan or just vegetarian?”
Excuse me? JUST Vegetarian? Is there a heirarchy? (Don’t answer, I know there is, I ate at the veg/vegan cafeteria in college, where everyone tried to out-vegan each other)

I say, “vegetarian.”

And he says. “Guh, I’m a vegan? and the fries are fried in the same oil? as the nuggets? right? You know that, right?”

I said something stupid like “well, I try not to know things like that.” But what I MEANT to say was, “That would have been far more helpful if you’d told me as I was ordering, not after I paid, and by the way, bucko, I’m doing my best to eat without getting out of my car in Shitsplat, Tennessee and there are not a whole lot of options, and also by the way, for a vegan you sure do look like YOU’RE WORKING AT FUCKING ALL-BEEF WENDY’S, motherfucker.”

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