Ah, the sacred ritual of ordering fast-food a process designed for simplicity, but occasionally serves up a slice of life's absurdities. Some shit you simply can't invent, like my recent rendezvous at Dunkin'.

I'm at the drive-thru, you know, doing the usual asking for a sandwich and a drink. I roll up to the service window and meet the youthful purveyor of my food. He offers me my drink in complete normality, but his hesitation with the straw implies we're straying off the beaten path of a typical transaction.

As he scans the mystical scriptures of the order screen, he throws me a curveball. "Did you order a donut?" A harmless inquiry, to which my answer was a no-brainer, "no." Alas, the plot thickens.

He lays eyes on my sandwich as if it's holding Pandora's box, then his gaze diverts towards my car. There it sits innocently, a white bag on the front seat, minding its own darn business.

"What’s that?" He prods, as though anticipating a grand revelation. To satisfy his curiosity (and to assert my innocence), I reach over, crumpling the suspense. "Oh, old bag," he realizes, returning to the reality of the Dunkin' drive-thru.

For the grand finale, he finally hands over my sandwich, relieving himself of his self-assumed duty as the drive-thru detective. And there I sit, accused, tried, and acquitted of sandwich smuggling before I could even take a sip of my drink.

So, my dear readers, it seems even a simple run to Dunkin can turn into a wild whodunit. Can't make this shit up, folks!

Courtesy: Bill, Dunkin' customer and part-time scapegoat.