If you ever go into a McDonald’s or a Wendy’s or whatever and there are Eskimos in there, get out as fast as you can. I’m not just talking about people of the Eskimo persuasion in general, I’m talking about your classic stereotypical Eskimos with the huge furry parkas and the husky-drawn sleds and igloos and stuff. They have no business in a fast food restaurant and if they’re in there when you walk in, something’s dreadfully wrong.
Sorry if this sounds “un-PC”, but Eskimos are the worst-ever fast-food employees, especially the ones that don’t like to speak English. Oh, they KNOW how to speak English. They just don’t LIKE to. They’d rather speak Eskimo, and they actually look at you like you were a dope for not being able to understand it. Whenever such an occasion pops up, I feel like responding angrily, “Well, excuuuuse me for not being an Eskimo!”, but I don’t because I’m afraid one of them might throw a harpoon at me or something.
Just trying to order a quarter-pounder and fries from a singleminded, hardcore Eskimo is like trying to kill a plastic lawn chair. “I’d like a quarter-pounder and fries,” you might cheerily announce, unaware of the anguish ahead. The Eskimo behind the counter, peering suspiciously out at you from within his parka’s enormous hood, will ask, “You want fries with that?” An honest mistake, you think, before answering blithely, “Ha ha, well, I did say I wanted a quarter-pounder ‘with fries’, so, of course, I don’t want fries WITH the quarter-pounder and fries. But…I do want the fries.”
“You want Full Meal Deal?” he asks, unswerving in his rigid, vaguely-intimidating demeanor.
“No, I’m taking this straight home to eat,” you respond. “So I don’t need a drink. I’ll, uhh, just drink water with it when I get home. So…no, I don’t need to order the entire…err, Full Meal Deal.”
The Eskimo peers straight into your eyes, unblinking. “This for here or to-go?”
Gradually, the tension rises. “It’s to-go. Remember? I said I was going to take it home. Heh, uhh…”
“Would you like a fried pie?”
Now the tension is thick enough to poke with a picnic fork. The Eskimo rings up the order without taking his steely gaze off of you. He glances down at the total. “That will be four dollars and sixty-five cents.”
It’s been a while since you ate in one of these places, and you expected it to come to a couple of bucks, tops. You reconsider the necessity of the fries, then worry that if you tell the Eskimo that you changed your mind and all you want is the quarter-pounder, he’ll ask, “You want fries with that?”
“Uhh,” you finally say aloud as you take out your wallet. “I think I’ll just have the quarter-pounder by itself, then.”
“You want fries with that?”
“No, because that would defeat the purpose of my specifically not ordering the fries. How the hell can you not order fries if you have fries with them?” You blurt it out before you can stop yourself. Expecting the worst, you prepare to be harpooned. Then you discover that somewhere in the sentence “How the hell can you not order fries if you have fries with them?” is the secret password that the Eskimo has been on the alert for all along. Motioning you behind the counter, he then gives you the secret hand sign. You respond by throwing up your hands in confusion, which is the exact response he was looking for. Silently, he leads you back into the kitchen.
Sound familiar so far? If so, you’ve been waited on by an Eskimo at a fast food restaurant, too. The last time it happened to me was day before yesterday. As I walked hesitantly behind the counter, the Eskimo opened the kitchen door. To my surprise, there were banks of video monitors and computer keyboards amidst the grills and deep-fryers, with Eskimos at every monitoring station.
It was at that moment that I realized these Eskimos were actually agents of E.S.K.I.M.O., which stands for “Eternal Surveillance K-something (couldn’t think of anything that began with a K) And (needed an “and” there, sorry) Massive Observation. Of People. (We needed the “of people” at the end but we cut it off the abbreviation or it would’ve been “ESKIMOOP.”)” This insidious organization monitored the entire population of the world 24 hours a day. Unfortunately, they didn’t know why they were doing it, because the mysterious leader and mastermind who ran the organization was run over by a streetcar one day while out walking his giant rabbits.
Okay, I’m making that stuff up. Actually, Eskimos run mission control for NASA via satellite out of various fast food restaurants across the United States. The nerdy guys we’re used to seeing in mission control during space flights just show up whenever they’re going to be on TV. The rest of the time they enjoy white-water rafting, snorkling, aquatic ballroom dancing, skipping merrily, Olympic-level synchronized skipping merrily, marathon gargling competitions, being chased through the woods by timber wolves, re-enacting “Brady Bunch” episodes dressed as S.S. officers, and passing out ham sandwiches to anyone wearing a sombrero.
And so, Eskimos are running our space program in-between cooking hamburgers and making non-dairy “shakes.” When they SHOULD be concentrating on cooking and preparing the best food possible for their paying customers, and doing so in a timely manner. Which you simply can’t do if you’re coordinating a shuttle mission or overseeing the construction of a new module on the international space station. Which, by the way, is infested with gophers.
I don’t wonder that NASA would try to pull something like this, but the question that keeps nagging me is “Why Eskimos?” I had the opportunity to pose this question to presidential candidate Fred Dalton Thompson last week on one of those radio call-in shows, and his response was to go instantly, irrevocably insane. Well, I just don’t know if I can support a candidate for President who goes instantly, irrevocably insane whenever someone asks him about Eskimos. Anyway, Fred Dalton Thompson has just been cast as Tarzan in the upcoming film, TARZAN DRIVES A MAC TRUCK INTO A BRICK WALL AT EIGHTY MILES AN HOUR FOR NO APPARENT REASON WHATSOEVER.