Category Archives: Quote

Joe Wenderoth Quotes

I heard that when Wendy’s double burgers weren’t selling well, they added a triple burger. The triple burger sold badly but sales of the double skyrocketed. All I need to know is that it’s acceptable to order three enormous square beef patties on a bun and then ordering two makes me look like a spokesman for self-restraint. Anyway. This guy Wenderoth is pretty cool, pretty quotable.

From Letters to Wendy’s:

What lucky soul could make a beautiful woman with a Biggie wait? Who has that kind of power? What person would a beautiful woman with a Biggie find attractive? Only one answer made sense to me: another beautiful woman with a Biggie.

This idiotic notion that one should love the other customers. Love here really only means: agree, for the time being, not to attack.

To stroke another customer’s head. Run my fingers through his hair and whisper to him: “you’re going to be all right….” I would be called responsible for doing this if he were bleeding to death on the floor, but I would be called inappropriate if I did it when he was in good health. I would be, like all trustworthy prophets, called a nuisance and promptly arrested.

Today a small child weeping. Perhaps weeping is the wrong word. His mother explained to me that this was not true grief–this was pretend grief. This was grief, she said, designed to get something. And I thought, have I anything but pretend grief? And I asked myself what I meant, in these daily excretions of pretend grief, to acquire? And I couldn’t answer. And I felt true grief.

Tagged

The Patriot

“The mower moved so fast that it seemed to hover and basically did all the work for you. But still, I managed to work up a sweat while riding it, which caused me to take off my shirt, which got me into some trouble with my neighbors, my male neighbors (no women mowed lawns in Camelot; in this way we were like the Muslims), who all wore big, padded recording-style-type headphones while they mowed, and also, huge floppy hats and safety goggles and heavy-duty gardening gloves and long-sleeved oxford shirts and paint-spattered khaki pants tucked into the top of work boots. Except for tiny swatches of upper cheek and neck, there was no skin visible on them at all. My barechestedness ran counter to some unwritten subdivision behavioral code and had earned me some hard, disgusted stares from my neighbors. Every Saturday I reminded myself to remain fully clothed, but once I started sweating I could never remember to keep the shirt on and in this way fell into my own little unintentional piece of rebellion. I was like the patriot who kept forgetting not to dump the king’s tea into the harbor.”

– Brock Clarke, An Arsonist’s Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England