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Rick's Notebook
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| "Some Cynical Guy" No. 16: October
13, 2000
Some Don't Like It Hot As I was perusing the morning paper in search of diversion, I stumbled upon another of those all-too-familiar stories that fall under the general heading of 'Woman Burns Self at Fast-Food Restaurant, Sues Big-Time.' We all remember the tale of the woman who became an instant tycoon because she spilled scalding McDonald's coffee in her lap. This time the unfortunate burnee had commenced to devour a burger -- I don't remember offhand what sort of burger it was, but here's all that matters for the purposes of my parable: it contained a pickle slice that slipped out of the bun and flopped onto the victim's unsuspecting chin. Apparently this particular pickle slice was so hot that it inflicted a second-degree burn, which is more serious than a first-degree burn but not within the realm of life-threatening injuries, especially since it was caused by a pickle slice. The woman was not amused, and she sued the restaurant (yes, it was poor McDonald's again) for a healthy amount of monetary compensation -- we're not talking millions here, but if she wins her case let's say she could put a down-payment on one of those stately new suburban tract mansions with Palladian windows and a bathroom lurking behind every other door. And she'd still have enough left over for a trip to Bermuda. It's easy, of course, to make sport of yet another litigant who uses his or her own klutziness as a convenient shortcut to elevated economic status. But before we let our cynical arrows fly, let's take a closer look at the case. Here was a woman who paid honest money to be nourished at a public eating establishment. When you let somebody else do the cooking, you're entrusting the cooks with your life; after all, who's to say that the underpaid chefs at a fast-food restaurant aren't using chopped rat for the burgers or sprinkling arsenic on the French fries? A purchase at a fast-food restaurant is an act of trust, an unwritten contract that stipulates: I agree to pay you for an inexpensive, freshly prepared meal that may clog my arteries and induce gross obesity, but I expect to finish said meal without being assaulted or otherwise injured by any foodstuffs I may consume on the premises. That's not so outlandish a request, is it? We have a right to bite into a burger without catching a scalding pickle on the chin, wouldn't you agree? In fact, I've never really understood why our culture favors food and drink heated to the point of inflicting bodily harm. I can't tell you how often I've burned the space just behind my two front teeth while biting into a steaming slice of pizza. I make contact with the molten cheese and immediately know that within a few seconds I'll feel those limp little shreds of flesh hanging from the roof of my mouth. Has it happened to you? No matter; those limp little shreds of flesh aren't a pleasant thing to contemplate, just as burning one's tongue on boiling coffee isn't pleasant. You know you'll be feeling those hypersensitive little bumps all over your tongue for the next eighteen hours. Maybe it's just me; I'm convinced that some of us are more sensitive to tongue-burns than others. When I'm at a gathering where scalding drinks are consumed, I watch with astonishment while my companions knock back a cup of coffee or tea as soon as it's served. I take a cautious sip -- TONGUE BURN! I casually place the cup back in its saucer while my tongue sends electric exclamation points of distress to the receptors in my brain. Around the time that others are draining the dregs from their cups, I feel confident enough to take my first reckless gulp. Yes, I've been wounded in action, but I'm also aware that I had an option NOT to consume my pizza or scalding beverage at the precise moment it was served. I recognize it as a fact of life that coffee, tea and pizza are just too darn hot. If I'm ravenous enough to risk frying my palate over a slice of pizza, that's my responsibility. For this reason I choose not to sue the establishments that have caused injury to my hypersensitive tongue and/or the roof of my mouth. The folks who have sued over spilled coffee or a wayward slice of overheated pickle can't be blamed for the distress they feel when they injure themselves. But we can take issue with their readiness to convert a personal grievance into a small fortune. How do you calculate a pickle burn in monetary terms, anyway? It might be worth more than a Mickey Mantle rookie card, but is it worth more than a mint-condition 1932 Duesenberg? Less than the Gross Domestic Product of Sri Lanka? What if the pickle slice had dropped inside the woman's blouse? Then could we be talking Sri Lanka? You have to wonder how the lawyers estimate these things, especially when they come up with ridiculously precise sums like $1,128,056.79. (Was the 79 cents for the lawyer's bag of corn chips during the deposition?) I'm happy to report that in the burning pickle case, the lawyers came up with an admirably round (and relatively modest) figure of $125,000. Seems reasonable enough for a disfiguring pickle burn, doesn't it? But the real clincher was buried deep in the newspaper article. It turns out that the burned woman was suing the fast-food chain for just $110,000, a sum intended to cover her 'physical and mental pain.' So how did they arrive at the total of $125,000, you ask? Apparently the woman's HUSBAND is suing the franchise for $15,000 because (are you ready for this?) he 'has been deprived of the services and consortium of his wife.' We non-lawyers can only speculate on the definition of 'services and consortium,' and why they would have been lost as the result of a fast-food pickle burn, but the mind reels at the concept of putting a price tag on them -- and such a paltry figure at that. Come on, good husband, aren't your wife's 'services and consortium' worth at least as much as, say, a Honda Civic, if not a BMW? If I were in the wife's shoes, let me tell you I'd be downright offended. In fact, I'd be so offended that I might want to have my next lawsuit prosecuted in divorce court. © 2000 by Bridget Petrella Media Relations. "Some Cynical Guy" appears here by permission of the publisher. "Some Cynical Guy" column archive:
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Rick Bayan was born and raised in New Brunswick, New Jersey, where he enjoyed an idyllic suburban childhood—the perfect background for a lifetime of cynical disillusionment. He has held a number of typical jobs for an idealistic liberal arts graduate, including assistant editor of Rubber Age and managing editor of Container News. At Time-Life Books he was assigned to write about plumbing fixtures. His work as copy chief for Day-Timers, Inc.,
won six advertising awards, none of which dampened his cheerfully morose view of business and life. He has written three books, including
Words That Sell and The Cynic's Dictionary, and tons of junk mail. Bayan, who claims to be a "kinder, gentler cynic," currently lives in Allentown, Pennsylvania. His weekly column, "Some Cynical Guy," is published and syndicated by Upbeat Online.
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