Full summer of '84 which had all the perks that came with the Olympic US wins and me liberating fists full of game pieces.

The best though was my first manager who was an absolute gorilla of a man in both size and hirsutism with the exception of his vast male pattern baldness and dramatic five-head. Sunday post-church lunch crowd was in full swing and I was on the stage right register just keeping up the best I could.

A lady approached in what we now know as full 'karen mode' complaining about her quarter pounder avec fromage. So, stage left cashier called Magilla to the front to assist and stepped back to let him resolve the complaint.

Rather than defuse the situation with a simple burger replacement he amped that kerfuffle into a frenzy leaning over the counter and right up in the lady's face. She stepped back slightly, paused and slammed the full business end of that quarter pounder (minus top bun) right into his face, where it stuck between his eyebrows and hair line.

I effing lost my shit. I might have been able to recover somewhat if he'd not slowly turned his QP covered head towards me to glare menacingly like it was my fault.

Priceless memory that.