Drive-Thru Dethroned

I pulled up to the drive-thru window in a hoodie that cost more than their register float and smiled like I owned the joint—because spiritually, I did.

“Hey, I had a coupon for a free sandwich that I didn’t get to use. It expired yesterday, but I still want it,” I said.

The cashier blinked. “Um… sir, it’s expired.”

“And yet,” I said, gesturing vaguely to the cosmos, “I’m still hungry.”

She hesitated. “We… can’t honor it.”

“So you admit,” I leaned closer, “you had every intention of feeding me. You printed the coupon. You mailed it. You promised me food. And then what? You pull the rug at the eleventh hour? That’s fraud. Emotional distress. Economic sabotage.”

Her manager stepped into view. “Sir, I—”

“Save it. I’m not asking for the sandwich anymore. I’m demanding $7.49 plus interest for the time I’ve spent emotionally preparing to eat something I never got. That’s psychological theft.”

I didn’t get the sandwich.

But I did get banned.

Lesson learned? Never underestimate the value of expired paper when Hot Josh is hungry. Justice has no expiration date.