In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks: And Other Complaints from an Angry Middle-Aged White Guy by Adam Carolla Read Free Book Online

yelled, “Twenty dollars.” Not “How are you? That will be twenty dollars.” Just “Twenty dollars.” I said, “I’m sitting on my wallet, let me park in the spot that’s ten feet ahead of me. I’ll get out of the car and give you the twenty dollars.” He said, “You give me the twenty dollars now.” Keep in mind, I was wearing a suit, sitting on the tail of the jacket, and at the time I was driving a 350Z, which means my ass was lower than my feet. I said to the guy one more time, “Just let me park the car and I’ll give you the twenty when I climb out.” What did he think my plan was? To jump out of the car, laugh like Ray Liotta, and yell, “Sucker! I’m running to Mexico. Good luck selling that thirty-five-thousand-dollar car.” He said, “No. I need the twenty now.” And I said, “Screw it, I’m going across the street.” I threw the car into reverse to pull out and park at the competitor’s lot, so he said, “Fine, park the car, then give me the twenty.” And then I did what I’m asking all of you to do and what makes me a hero. I said, “Fuck you,” and I pulled out and totaled a van filled with retarded kids. No, I just went across the street and parked. I never thought I’d be cast in the role of Asshole Robin Hood. I always assumed I’d be trying to stick it to the Man. But as it turns out, the problem is not so much with the Man but with the men he’s giving eight dollars an hour to.
    The minimum wagers who were put on this planet to ruin your short stay on the same planet come in many different shapes and sizes. Usually they have penises, and huge guts that hang over the top of their penises to protect them from the rain. But once in a rare while they come in the form of a young petite female, and this next story is just such a case.
    I had a hankering for Middle Eastern food, so I headed for the city of Van Nuys to a restaurant I frequent called Zankou Chicken. Middle Eastern food sounds horrible on paper and looks horrible on a paper plate but tastes delicious. And once you’ve decided you’re in the mood for it, Italian, Chinese, or burgers just won’t do. So I sped toward Van Nuys with visions of shawarma dancing in my head, jumped out of my car, ran into Zankou, and proceeded to order what I always get, the fifty-fifty shawarma plate—half chicken, half beef. For those of you who’ve never heard of shawarma, let me A) explain to you what it is and B) thank you for being heroes in the fight against terrorism. Shawarma is slices of beef or chicken piled high on a vertical spit that rotates in front of a red-hot three-sided space heater. An electric knife is used to carve off morsels that usually end up in the provided pita and eventually in your belly. In the case of Zankou, their shawarma station had the two spits side-by-side just inches apart. It’s important to note that the price for the shawarma plate, be it chicken or beef, was the same—$7.99. And with that in mind I happily ordered my fifty-fifty shawarma plate.
    The seventeen-year-old Armenian she-dwarf who weighed all of ninety-eight pounds, and if you subtracted the eyeliner would have been well into the low seventies, said, “We don’t do half and half, it’s either all chicken or all beef.” I said, “I know for a fact you do the fifty-fifty shawarma plate, because that’s what I order every time I come here and I’ve been here at least ten times.” The curt cunt just repeated what she said the first time. I said, “I think you’re misunderstanding what I’m asking for. Not more meat, just the same amount but with chicken and beef. If they’re both the same price, instead of two swipes with the electric knife on either the beef or the chicken, just give one on the beef and one on the chicken.” She then uttered the phrase that’s the battle call of all shitty businesses: “Everyone asks for that.” God fucking forbid you give the public what they want. As a matter of fact, we could avoid