I’ve decided that it’s much easier to wait in the Wendy’s drive through then park the damn car and walk my lazy ass in and talk to Wendy. I decided this today at lunch. Even though the times I’ve been I to this particular location I’ve had a hamburger and a show. The manager, who has eyebrows like Artha Kitt only hires 18 year olds that someday will hatch from club kid larvae into beautiful drag queens. I call them “The Wendys.”
There’s a herd, or bunch, or gaggle, or a murder of them. A murder of drag queens. Nowhere else can you get a BLT salad and find glitter in it. When I order there’s three of them on the line giving me the “Care Bear Stare.” Rainbows shooting from what’s left of their eyebrows.
As much as I love drag chrysalis, little pupae in Scissor Sister T-shirts ready to come forth. This means I have to turn off the IPod and go inside, and during lunch I’m usually listening to pod casts like The Feast of Fools or Geeky NPR news. And ya’know I’m fine just waiting in the drive through. Unless you count the other day when The Feast of Fools was talking about anal health and I had the top down on the Jeep.