"Welcome to McDonald's, may I take your order?"
"Yes Ma'am. I'd like a large fries please, hold the cooking."
"Excuse me?"
I know she's already said no in her head, but I press on just the same: "Um... I'd just like the frozen fries please."
"I'm sorry sir, we just don't do that."
Time for some intimidation tactics: "Ok. Could I speak to the manager please?"
"I am the manager."
Shit. I bring out the really big guns: "Listen, the thing is, my wife is pregnant—like really pregnant—and she sent me on a quest for McDonald's french fries. But she only likes them really fresh, like straight out of the fryer fresh, so I figured I'd just get some frozen, and fry them for her at home. You know how it is. Women—no accounting for'em, right?"
She remains unimpressed, and needless to say, I go home fry-less, contemplating whether attempting to leverage an unborn, un-conceived son in exchange for a couple dozen frozen potato sticks is grounds for eternal damnation. Thank God I'm an atheist.