Dixie Vending Machine Madness – Part 1

So, I get stranded in Atlanta on the way back from a business trip. Despite not having a problem with my flight getting in 45 minutes late, AirTran couldn’t be bothered to delay my connecting flight 10 minutes.

I felt bad for myself, but I really felt for the two good ole boys behind me who were on their way to a professional Slots tournament in Vegas. Their connecting flight was at the gate, about 30 feet from where we debarked, and the Gatestapo wouldn’t let them board. After waiting in line with about 25 other pissed off people, we got shipped off to a Quality Inn. Of course, we had to wait another 20 minutes for the hotel shuttle van to pick us up.

Now, nobody had eaten and it was getting late. But, AirTran gave us food vouchers. Sweet! Except that they were only usable at the airport. Ass!

The van driver wisely realized that everyone could use a drink, except for the stressed out woman who was supposed to be in Colorado presenting a seminar the next day and who wasn’t amused by the younger good ole boy’s continual suggestions of hitting a club or “titty bar.” So the driver pulled into a gas station to give us a chance to buy beer.

Georgia is weird. You can’t buy Foties or single beers. But somehow it’s OK to saw a 12-pack in half and sell it as 2 six packs.

On the way to the hotel, the van driver kindly mentioned to the good ole boys that they’d probably be happier at the Mexican restaurant down the road than they would be at the club around the corner from the hotel, as the club wasn’t “mixed,” which he then also kindly mentioned meant that white people didn’t go there. There was a Waffle House a few blocks away (and apparently on the other side of an 8 lane highway), but other than that we were hosed on food.

If I was smart I would have ordered some delivery food and expensed it, but I just nursed the beer I scammed off the Texans and watched one of the 4 24-hour televangelist channels available on the hotel’s cable TV until Colbert came on. Then I read the HBO schedule guide that some mean traveller had left in the room to taunt people with unavailable viewing options and went to bed.

Since my flight wasn’t until late in the afternoon, I slept in. I leisurely awoke, relieved myself in the wobbly toilet that threatened to tear itself out of the wall and showered in the vaguely brownish stall. All the while, thinking of the promised continental breakfast that was destined to be delicious.

I could practically taste the fatty butter-slathered croissant as I made my way to the hotel lobby.

Much to my dismay, I had slept in a bit too late — there were only 30 minutes left and all that was left was Breakfast Dregs. Dammit! I ate frosted flakes from a Styrofoam bowl with a plastic spoon, ate a banana and drank burnt coffee.

I checked out of my room and wandered around the lobby as I waited for the airport van. I finally noticed the vending machine. Since I was full of frosted flakes, I didn’t pay much attention. But then, just as I was leaving, I saw a familiar friend in the corner of my eye.

I was like, “WTF! It’s the flaming Cheeto guy!”

Then I was like, “WTF! Those aren’t Cheetos!”

Yep, it turns out that crazy stuff happens in the Confederacy. Instead of Cheetos, the flaming Cheeto guy was shilling for something called Chester’s Fries. However, I was relieved to see that the fries were Flamin’ Hot!

There was no way I was going back north without a bag. I pumped my quarters into the vending machine, snagged the snacks, and stuffed them into my carry on bag.

If you have sharp eyes, you’ll see that the bag clearly states that they are best eaten by March 14th (I’m assuming this year). Although I purchased them well before the deadline, I actually just ate them, so I may not have had the ideal Chester’s Fries experience. Still, they were enjoyable enough.

If you took regular french fries and sucked all the water out, puffed them with air, and doused them with hot sauces, you might get something resembling Chester’s Fries.

Growing up, we had Andy Capp fries, which were essentially the same as Chester’s Fries. I guess southern dandies identify with edgy cheetahs, and Yankees identify with surly British drunks on the dole. Weird, I would have figured it would be the other way around. Oh, snap!

Ultimately, the fries were delicious and wicked hot, but not as satisfying as the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. With the Cheetos, I felt like I made a significant accomplishment after finishing even a small bag. Although Chester’s Fries are yummy, they are so airy that I feel like I could eat a garbage bag full and I wouldn’t feel my snack hunger was satisfied (although my mouth and taste buds might be completely numb).