And the Nobel Prize goes to … the inventive physicist of fast-food that flies

Why can't there be come-to-me-fast-food?

I rarely eat the stuff and when I do it's generally from Wendy's. Right now I have a serious hankering for this:

or this:

Unfortunately, it means getting in my car and driving several miles down a main strip loaded with traffic lights and cars and Saturday goings-about.

Yesterday's heavy work leaves me beat and my old injured back, overexerted in the process, insisting on recuperative rest. I want to stay put and relax and have it come to me.

I'm willing it to come to me. But it's not responding. Even though I'm promising a nice tip.

I'm trying to ignore the craving in the misguided notion that'll go away.

But it just nags nags nags. Which means that within the next 10 minutes, I'll be  dragging my tired aching body down the stairs … out the door … into a car … down the road … park … exit car … enter store … wait in line … order … pay … wait some more … exit store … enter car … drive more … exit car again … enter house … climb stairs.

And fall into a heap, exhausted. When all I really and truly want is it to fly to me. So much for where there's a will there's a way. Mr. or Ms. future Nobel Prize winner, I need you now.

Fast-food? Ha. Try lazy-food.

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