So there I was. Hungry, tired, and bored. I had been out on the boat all day, skurfing my brains out. My left arm barely moved from being so sore and my back stuck to the office chair from the sunburn. Hard earned misery at its finest. Anyway, after getting the boat out of the water and barely escaping the clutches of the evil mosquito hordes, I got cleaned up, threw on my Sunday best (ok, that's a lie, but I looked good. Damn good.) and got ready to go out. Everything hinged on one phone call, which would signal the beginning of the evening's events. So I waited for the phone call. And waited some more. And had some brie and Triscuits. And waited some more. The phone call never came. Completely speechless and totally frustrated, I realized that sitting and bitching to your friends about how hungry you are can only last so long, so I did what any sensible man would do: Wendy's run. After peeling myself off the chair and throwing on a shirt, I set forth onto the glorious journey that is a Wendy's run. I started my trusty (again, a lie. Knock on wood) Yukon, put in a Pink Floyd CD, and threw 'er in gear. As I headed out of my neighborhood, I happened to glance down at the fuel gauge. Insert tire screeching noises here. The needle was resting on E, which stands for ElveshavebeenstealingmygascauseIneverhaveany. A trouble-free Wendy's run was just too good to be true. Muttering obscenities under my breath, I set course for a gas station. After a nice rendition of Comfortably Numb, I pulled into the gas station and put in $20 worth of fuel. After paying and running into some very, very intoxicated friends of mine, I got back in my green pig and fired her up. And gasped when I watched the fuel gauge rise barely a quarter of a tank. I thought to myself, "Surely the fuel gauge is incorrect, there's no way that $20 bought so little fuel." But like Dad used to tell me, sometimes the truth hurts. Again I set out for Wendy's muttering obscenities under my breath about fuel. And there it was. Beckoning like a lighthouse on a stormy night, the Wendy's sign called to me. I hit the blinker, pulled into the parking lot, and got in line for the drive-thru. Finally I came upon the menu and the infamous intercom system. Not once have I gone to Wendy's and had them take my order correctly the first time. I prayed to the fast food gods that maybe, maybe just this once, the intercom would work correctly and I could be on my way with my late night dinner in no time. The lady inside angrily asked, "CAN I TAKE YOUR ORDER!?" Stunned at her short-temperedness, "Yes, I'd like two junior bacon cheeseburgers, a small chili with cheese, and a medium tea" I replied. "We outta chili." There are no three words that I dreaded hearing more. "No...no chili?!" I asked in shock. "Naw, we ran outta chili bout tree hous ago. You wan anythang else?!" came the terse reply. "Um...I guess some fries then," I stammered, still shocked from those awful words. "Drive around!" yelled the evil fast food lady (she became 'evil fast food lady' when she failed to hand over the chili). I let my foot off of the brake pedal and crept around the corner to the first window. "Five oh five" she said quickly, as if she was late for a nail appointment. At 11:30pm. After handing over the cash, she silently hand the change back and walked off. I took that as my cue to go to the second window. After arriving, I turned to the right, expecting to have my food waiting for me. But after an exchange like I had at the first window, who in their right mind would expect their food to be ready? So there I sat, hungry, tired, and bored. After a few long minutes, the evil fast food lady appeared and without saying a word to me, handed my food and drink to me, turned around, and proceeded to scream something unintelligible at another Wendy's employee. Completely frustrated with the whole thing, I simply drove off. Who needs a straw anyway? Heading back towards the Bat Cave, I put on Wish You Were Here and kicked back. After a few minutes cruising down back roads with a full moon, an awesome soundtrack, and no one else on the road, I finally made it back to my house. A full 45 minutes after I left, I was back. And armed to the teeth with burgers and fries. After sprinting up the front stairs and into the kitchen, I sat down to enjoy my hard earned nourishment. I opened the bag, and removed the contents. As I unwrapped the first bacon cheeseburger, the familiar aroma of Wendy's filled the air. Time slowed down as I bit into the first burger. Glorious tender morsels of baconly goodness! I could barely contain myself as I wolfed down both burgers and the fries. As I reached into the bag once more, my moment of bliss came to a screeching halt: no chili. Once again, I was without chili. Dejectedly, I threw out the burger wrappers and bag, and walked to my room. And here I am, a half hour later, writing this incredibly story of bravery and heroism and no chili, with my shirt over my head like Cornholio. And I ask you this: what would you do for Wendy’s? It's Saturday night and I'm so bored I just wrote about my trip to Wendy's. I should probably just go drive off a bridge or something.