The salad is as limp as a soggy newspaper sitting in a puddle on your doorstep. It is dull green and void of crispness. With every bite of the lifeless burger, with every limp fry, I find myself hurtling towards a life of mediocrity. But I go here often because it is convenient and it has a drive through lane. I order at a plastic speaker and the speaker squeaks back at me. I drive up to a window and pay for a bundle of disgrace wrapped in a paper bag. Not because it is tasty but because it is consistent. I get through my afternoon grudgingly.