Oddly enough, I don't enjoy Curb Your Enthusiasm

Starving, but without much time before my sewing (yes...) class, I dash into a Burger King (yes...) on Columbia Pike, and order the veggie burger that I am startled, but pleased, to see they have. Proud of myself on the calorie front, I then negate the virtue with a reward order of the nine-piece Cheesy Tots. As I wait for my meal ("meal") with my back to the counter, trying to will myself into a different universe than the shrieking demonspawn five-year-olds running amok around me, I hear the distinct plop of something being dropped on the floor, and a quick, hushed conferral. I am handed a crushed and remarkably greasy package. Suspicious, I peek inside.

Eight Cheesy Tots.

The server looks at me defiantly. I slink away, and feel bad about my lack of assertiveness. I rationalize that I didn't really want to stand at the counter amid the howling kneebiters as one more Tot is fried (the veggie burger, evidently the first to ever be ordered at this franchise, caused enough consternation and consultation). I consider the likelihood that the extra Tot would have been the one that landed on the floor. I try to console myself that it's probably better to have received one fewer greasy, cheesy, fried morsel and that I should be willing to pay for that mitzvah.

Nevertheless, my meal ("meal") is disturbed by my compulsive calculation of how much BK has stolen from me. I decide to willfully not bus my table -- they have violated the implicit fast food contract, and so I shall violate the implicit fast food contract -- and, sadly, this makes me feel a little better.