Manna Combo with Fries

I had a dream last night which, in itself, is surprising because I rarely ever have dreams - or at least I rarely ever remember them. Last night was different; most likely due to an unfortunate combination of grapefruit juice and pepperoni pizza coupled with a Breyer's Carbsmart icecream bar loaded with Splenda - a substance that, if exposed to sunlight, has the potential to unmake the world.

It wasn't exactly a nightmare, but it wasn't fluffy clouds and harp strumming either. It was something in-between: it was Chick-fil-a.

For some reason I went to sleep, woke up dressed in Chick-fil-a attire, and headed out the door for my first day of work. I felt very worried because I didn't know how I would make my mortgage payment at $6 an hour, but it seemed reasonable that I would be headed there for work. Now, the connection between Christians and Chick-fil-a notwithstanding; I love some tasty Chick-fil-a - I won't lie to you. My non-Christian friends often refer to it as "Jesus Chicken", but they know all that biscuity goodness surrounding a hockey puck of superheated chicken meat is just what one needs at 4AM on a wintry Saturday morning.

I won't make the obvious reference to "the desert", "Manna" and "Quail" from God, but I will point out that if you want to get a brief taste of life as an Isrealite: go stand in your sandbox at noon on July 4th and eat a chicken biscuit. That's all I'm saying.

So, in my dream I was looking forward to kicking off Monday with some quarter-sized potato shreds and a nice deep-fried biscuit.

When I got there the manager turned out to be my long-time compatriot, mentor, sometime turkey poacher, and friend, Mark Stephens, apparently fresh off another career change at 55. I absentmindedly thought that Chick-fil-a Managership was an odd choice for a licensed home inspector, but knowing Mark it seemed plausible enough, so I took it in stride.

My job was to take bags of Chick-fil-a to patrons after they had placed their orders. During the lunch rush Mark's method of handling the bags was to write a customer name on each one; which would have been fine if he had written their actual names down; but he didn't did he? Nope. Instead he made up "funny" names based on the physical characteristics of the customers and I had to go shout them out in the crowded restaurant.

Hollering "Great Big Fatty!!!" out across a fast food restaurant at 12:05PM does not win you friends.

Needless to say: Mark blamed the entire thing on me when Truett Cathy showed up which, of course, he did.

All that to tell you this: last night I got fired from my dream job at Chick-fil-a.