Sitting in my 2011 Honda Odyssey with kids I regret, I would do just about anything to move this drive-through line. Although it crossed my mind, leaving the line wasn’t an option. My marriage was at stake. 

I was on thin ice after my kids overheard my sobbing to my wife that I never wanted to have kids and that she trapped me. She knew she was the only person that I had ever had sex with and had an anxious attachment style, so I only said yes to having them because I was worried that she would leave me. So, now worried that she will leave me for real, this McDonald’s run is my last shot at proving I’m a competent father. Mess this up; it’s divorce papers with a side of hashbrowns.

Plus, all three are ugly. I know neither of us are beauties, but I was hoping we could summon some deep seeded genetics within both of us so that our family didn’t end up looking like the Addams Family had sex with the fucking cast of Rocky Horror Picture Show. 

But here we are, waiting in line for 15 sausage biscuits and 30 hashbrowns for the four of us, and the line is standing still. 

That’s when a man in a suit tapped on my window, demanding I roll it down. Part of me was hoping he’d pull out a gun and blow my brains out, but instead, he asked us to step out of the car because the former President, Donald Trump, was inside making a campaign stop, and we were going to meet him as he worked the window. 

This put the situation into more context as I thought one of the bag boys from the grocery store next door snuck in and started working the drive-thru again, but I wasn’t thrilled when we had to sit on the curb as they checked the car for weapons. However, I did understand why they put my oldest in handcuffs after audibly gasping at her appearance when they slid open the back door. 

After the vehicle, personal, and cavity search, we were back in the car for another hour as a 78-year-old man pretended to learn how to work in fast food with the five vehicles in front of us before we were one car back from finally getting our order. By now, my youngest is chewing on the seatbelt, and my oldest is conducting a satanic ritual in the trunk.

The car in front of us pulled away, and it looked like I was safe. That’s when another Secret Service agent stopped us, and a swarm of journalists came to the window to be addressed by Trump. 

Another hour goes by, and I’m lying in the middle of a pentagram in the van trunk, about to leave the mortal plane, when the agent taps on the window and instructs us to move forward. 

When we get to the window, Trump is no longer there, but I could not care less at that point. I hand the lady my receipt, relieved that this hell is over. 

That’s when she returned the receipt to me and said, ‘We don’t serve breakfast after 10:30, dumbass. Try again tomorrow.’ 

Divorce paper would’ve been kinder.