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It started out as one of those really bad Mondays. The kind where you oversleep, the kids have some crisis, and you are out of sync the rest of the day. And it keeps getting worse. By dinner time, I was in a pretty foul mood. I decided to splurge and just get dinner out. We went to Wendy’s.

Now, I know that recently I announced my break up with Wendy. But the kids still like her and while Five Guys does a better burger, they don’t have a drive thru. So Wendy got $27 of my hard-earned cash. Me, the wife and kids got frosties, burgers, chicken nuggets and fries. Or so I thought.

I’m not a salad guy. I don’t like bunny food. If something is green, I generally avoid it. For me, potatoes and rice are vegetables. And tomatoes need to be ground up and served in processed form, like ketchup.

When I order a burger, I am very specific about what I want on it. Cheese. That’s it. Nothing else. In fast food world, this equates to me ordering a “plain” cheeseburger. I feel that catsup, mustard or any other topping (except for maybe bacon) dilutes the bovine goodness of a burger. I don’t want a mouthful of conflicting flavors. I want a steak on a bun, ground up so it’s easier to chew. I don’t want a hand-held salad.

At Wendy’s, this is generally not a problem as they make each burger to order. There aren’t racks of pre-made singles and doubles “with the works” sitting under a heat lamp. You have to tell them what you want on your burger — like lettuce, or “everything.” So when I order a plain cheeseburger, there shouldn’t be any problem. At Wendy’s, the “plain” is actually redundant, because if I just say I’ll have a “double with cheese,” all I should get is two buns, two patties and a mess of melted cheese.

Not this past Monday.

Nope, we get home and start divvying out the food — setting the kids up with plates. McDonald’s plates —   it’s a sick joke I like to engage in, as I’m not overly fond of McDonald’s (kind of like putting pearls on a hog, or however that saying goes).

When I get to my burger — my frosty and fries waiting for the third member of their perfect trio — I get a leafy, green surprise. My burger has been tainted by vegetables. All of them. That’s right, my “plain” burger is now adorned with a full-fledged salad, oozing chlorophyll and insecticides all over that delicious, greasy patty.

I pretty much lost it. I mean, I was already in a bad mood. But that just set me right over the edge. Were I mentally ill, I probably would have driven back to Wendy’s, tied the burger to a concrete block and heaved it through one of their windows.

I REALLY don’t like salad.

And why is that so odd? Why is it that when I go to a restaurant, order a steak, and tell them to hold the salad, they look at me funny? Or when I order a burger and tell them I don’t want any vegetables, even on my plate? Why is that so difficult a request to accept?

When I get an Outback burger, and it’s accompanied by a big nasty pickle (my most hated of vegetables), I just about lose my appetite. The nasty pickle juice has invariably leaked out on the plate, soaking into some fries and into the bun. The meal is ruined.

If I were allergic to onions, and ordered an onion-free meal, would I get strange looks? No. If I were one of those cumbaya-singing, hemp-wearing, tree-hugging, Obama-voting vegetarian hippies, and ordered some free-range greens, would I get contempt from the waitress? No.

What the hell is the problem with me not wanting vegetables?

Babies don’t like vegetables. Let’s face it, they’re an acquired taste. Given a choice, any child would pick candy over veggies. Why then do we have such a fixation on forcing people to eat vegetables?

When I order something plain, it takes less work to serve it that way than it does to layer on the bunny food. Is the cook trying to impose their twisted chlorophyllous obsession on me? Are they so retarded they don’t know what the word “plain” means? Are they Mexican, and can’t speaky the English at all? (See the reaction you get at a Taco Bell when you order a Taco with just meat and cheese)

I’ve made it to 41, and don’t have high cholesterol. Stop hating my meat-and-cheese lifestyle. I shouldn’t have to scrape the ketchup and mustard off my burger’s buns. I shouldn’t have to pick out pickle-soaked fries and use a napkin to blot up that nasty pickle juice off the plate. And God help you when I forget to check my burger first and bite into onions and lettuce when I should be tasting well-done cow flesh.

Some of you reading this are probably thinking that I should just check my order before I leave a drive thru, or send back orders done wrong. Sending stuff back is dangerous. You get angry glares from waitresses, and the kitchen takes their sweet ass time in fixing their own mistake. As for a drive thru, why should I make the people in line behind me suffer while I dig through a bag that has been stuffed to the brim with my order?

Fast food is hard work. I appreciate the hot, sweaty environment — as long as it doesn’t end up in my food — and the long hours and sheer effort it takes to get me a burger and fries in the drive thru. But when I pay you to serve me my food, HOLD THE DAMN SALAD!

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