A letter to Arbys

Dear Arby’s,

First, I would like to begin by thanking you for the invention of the curly fry.  It is amazing, with its unique shape and lovely spices; it is indeed a credit to American ingenuity.

But having said that, there are a few things I would like to mention, specifically concerning your restaurant just up the road from my house.

My wife and I had a chance to visit the local Arby’s last Friday night at 9:45 pm.  Yes, I know it’s a little late to eat fast food, but we’d had a funky day and the curly fries were calling our names.  And you know what your current advertising slogan is: we serve good mood food.

We needed it.

So there we were, at the drive-thru, at 9:45 pm, at Arby’s.  My wife ordered a salad with crispy (not grilled) chicken, and I ordered the Bacon Swiss Chicken combo.  With the curly fries.

My wife also wanted curly fries, because come on, who doesn’t?  So we combo-tized her meal too.

The guy on the intercom said it would be 6 minutes for my wife’s crispy chicken to cook.  We said, “Okay.”  We were hungry, but we could wait 6 minutes. For curly fries.

So we did.  Six minutes at the Arby’s drive-thru window. As such, we were allowed the opportunity to observe your “man” in action.

Neither my wife nor I knew it was possible for a person to insert an arm into one’s pants up to the elbow.  And on second glance, it seems quite impossible, but your man amazed us with his ability to tuck his shirt in so deep it virtually disappeared.  While such neatness is to commended, 1) He should not wear a shirt two sizes too big, and 2) He shouldn’t linger so long in his nether regions. It isn’t healthy.

For him or us.

What made the transaction that night so much more fun was that after the fishing expedition, the manager immediately packaged our food in a bag and handed it to us.

He was nice enough, with his 80s faux-stache and square gold earring prominently displayed, and yes, the food was hot and fresh.  The wait time was also close to 6 minutes–we can’t be sure because after witnessing that amazing display of dexterity, we were awe-struck; it was a like looking at the sun during an eclipse.

We were so hungry that we could overlook the salad being turned on its side when handed to us.  We could forgive the shirt-tucking incident to a certain degree.

But what really appalled us was that when we got home and opened our bags, there wasn’t a single packet of Horsey Sauce.  Nor Arby’s Sauce.  Not even a lousy ketchup.  There is no excuse in the world for not slipping in a few packs of Horsey Sauce.  We LIVE for that stuff.

And because we had to make our own sauce to enjoy our curly fries that night, we shall never forgive you.

Shame on you, Arby’s. Shame on you.