Everyone is known for something. Take me, for instance. When people think about Cynthia Hopkins, typically they think, “writer, thinks she’s funny, loves Chick-fil-A.” My love for Chick-fil-A is well known and thoroughly documented. I’ve blogged about it. I’ve statused and tweeted about it. Friends have posted videos of Tim Hawkins singing about it on my Facebook timeline more than once. They usually leave the comment, “I saw this and thought of you.” They are right to think of me when listening to a ditty about love for Chick-fil-A. It’s true, I’ve been a longtime fan.
That said, I consider myself a free thinker. And I don’t like to be put in a box, even if it is a box with 3 (or 4) mouth watering and generously portioned Chick-n-Strips, marinated in special seasonings, hand-breaded and pressure cooked to perfection in 100% refined peanut oil. Besides, I haven’t even been unique. It seems like every blogger I read has sung Chick-fil-A’s praises. So, call me a hypocrite if you must as I sit here sipping on my fountain beverage from the Chick-fil-A I visited at noon today, but I’m going to do something shocking. Unprecedented, even. Every writer needs a challenge. That assignment where I had to write a Bible study for teenagers on the book of Nahum? That was child’s play compared to this. This List Wednesday, I give you…
Chick-fil-A: 8 Things I Don’t Love About You (but I do still love you, I promise)
The waffle fry fail. No one, and I mean no one, likes to reach for a waffle fry and pull out one of these:
It doesn’t deserve to be in the same bag with the other delightfully cut fries, and it’s certainly not going in my mouth. It’s not even waffle-like, but somehow it makes its way into every bag, whether small, medium, or large. Come to think of it, it’s a steak fry, only round. I bet the cows aren’t happy about it, either. It’s just so disheartening. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
I appreciate the commitment to expediency, but your drive-thru makes me feel like I’m Danica Patrick in a pit stop at Indy. Actually, the pit stop goal of NASCAR drivers is 13 seconds, and I’m pretty sure you’re faster.Give me a chance to put my change in my purse before you’re shoving food in my face and saying, “My pleasure.” Gosh.
Lid placement. It’s not just you; I know that. But the thing is, I expect more from you. I’m not germaphobic, but every time I see one of your employees pressing down with their palm on the hole where my straw will go as they put the lid on my fountain drink (even massaging the lid with that money-handling palm from time to time), that 80s hit, Every Rose Has Its Thorn by Poison starts playing in my head.
For a Limited Time Only. Why isn’t the Banana Pudding Milkshake a part of our lives forever? I don’t understand.
The special event nights. I think your fundraisers are great. And I’m happy for the senior adults who get to play Bingo there every Wednesday from 9:30 – 10:30 am. But your special event nights seem kind of discriminatory. Maybe I’m snobbish, but when I get an email announcing that Giggles the Clown will be doing face-painting and parking lot karaoke this Thursday night, I start craving hamburgers.
The crowds. It could be a result of all the blogging, I don’t know. But the crowds you draw are getting unbearable. If you’re going to be that awesome, you should build bigger buildings and have more parking. Or open more restaurants. In Midlothian, Texas. Or, you should consider having special operating hours for your most faithful customer and 20 of her closest friends. I’m not gonna lie…it’s very difficult to stand in line with the commoners.
The Cowlendar. I don’t ask for much at Christmastime. But for as many years as you’ve made them, I’ve gotten your coupon calendar in my stocking. And I don’t get them for the calendar with silly cow-themed pictures. I rip out the coupons and throw that sucker away. So I know. I know what you used to be like, and I also know how you’ve changed. You used to make me so happy with a free food item each month. The ratio of free food to free drink was 11:1. But now? Now you’ve reduced our relationship to a food to drink ratio of 7:5. Do you love me only half as much?
Bringing the food to my table. I order, and you say, “I’ll bring it right out,” I guess because you want to make me feel special. Only you don’t bring it right out, and I don’t feel special. And how can you, really? I don’t have a number or a buzzer, and you’re busy taking orders from other customers. I’ve watched you, and I feel bad for you as you wander round and round, trying your hardest to remember what I look like. Part of me wants to get up and put an end to your struggle. But the other part of me, the spiteful and mean-spirited part, likes to sit back and watch because that way, maybe you’ll learn your lesson. Please just let me wait at the counter; it’s best for everyone involved.
Wow. I feel better already.