A burger and fries, please.

"You're familiar with the command to the ancients, 'Do not murder.' I'm telling you that anyone who is so much as angry with a brother or sister is guilty of murder. Carelessly call a brother 'idiot' and you just might find yourself hauled into court. Thoughtlessly yell 'stupid! 'at a sister and you are on the brink of hellfire." Jesus Christ, from The Message Bible.

The scene is repeated daily, all across the fruited plain, from sea to shining sea.

The setting is in the front of any fast food restaurant. I am in the back of a long line of glassy-eyed patrons, crawling serpentine between chrome railings, like cows in the slaughterhouse awaiting the final blow. Irony in the finest sense, since most of what will eventually cross the counter in brightly colored packaging arrived at the same destination in similar fashion.

The line here is long these days. The economy of the great land is in recession. Her citizens are on a budget, even if their duly elected officials are not.

The "fast food" we are here to buy is also cheap food, relatively speaking, so it has made a comeback in our diets after several years of flagging sales. It is not good food by any stretch of the imagination, either in taste or in healthiness. But it fills our ever-widening bellies, primarily because it is loaded with fat. As such, it contributes to the obesity of an already over-fed population.

I am in the back of this line. It is noon, and like the dozen or so others in front of me I am seeking to buy some of this crap, eat it, and get back to work in a reasonable amount of time. Like most, I am not necessarily here because I am hungry. We are here at this time and place because we live in the land of plenty where custom dictates that we eat at least three times a day. We do it because it's what we do.

A drama is unfolding at the front of this line. It is a spectacle that we have witnessed all too often. It has become tired in it's familiarity, like an episode of Seinfeld after you've watched it a dozen or so times.

There is a young woman there, one or two chubby children in tow. She is usually under the age of thirty. She is often overweight, a condition she is apparently unaware of due to her choice of attire. What little clothing there is stretched uncomfortably tight, both to the wearer and the observer. Her shorts are, well, short, and her top is likely sleeveless or backless. Due to the preferences of her generation there is usually a large tattoo on display--a butterfly, a floral arrangement, a medieval beast, or perhaps even something in a tribal motif. If so, all the better, because it gives me something to look at while the plot thickens.

The dialogue always goes something like this:

Woman: What do you want today, honey? Do you want a hamburger?
Urchin: No, I don't want that.
Woman: Would you like some chicken strips?
Urchin: No, I don't want 'em.
Woman: How about corn dog?
Urchin: No, I don't want that.
Woman: Well, what do you want, baby? You need to eat something.
Urchin: I want some ice cream.
Woman: Now darlin', you know you need to eat something else first, before you eat the ice cream. Don't you want some fries?
Urchin: No, I don't want that. I SAID I WANT SOME ICE CREAM.

Ahead of me, the line shifts uncomfortably. There may be a few muttered curses.

Here at the very back of the line, I feel my blood begin to boil. My thoughts are wild, murderous. I am fairly certain that they are the thoughts of my fellow citizens in front of me. "Just get the little brat a happy meal and move your fat behind so we can all get on with what's left of our lives. Little Justin's going to have to learn sooner or later that he's not the center of the universe and nobody gives a hoot what he wants or doesn't want. Might as well start his education today."

And then I smell something. It smells like ground beef is burning on one of the fryers behind the counter.

Or perhaps it's brimstone.