Thank you. My pleasure.

"And $1.34 is your change."
"Thank you."
"My pleasure."

"Can I get some more Dr. Pepper?
"Sure."
"Thank you."
"My pleasure."

"Would you like some help with your tray to your table?"
"That would be great. Thank you."
"My pleasure."

"Please drive around to the first window."
"Thank you."
"My pleasure."

"Thank you."
"My pleasure."

That's just a sampling of conversations I've had with people that work at Chick-Fil-A, arguably the nicest collection of well-groomed fast-food employers on the planet.

Notice a trend?

Apparently the company has a policy that whenever a customer says "thank you" the employee is required to say "my pleasure." How nice. Seriously. How nice is that? Recall the last time you went to McDonald's and the 18-year-old high school drop out is standing behind the counter and giving you that look.

Oh, c'mon. You know the look.

The one that says, "Oh my gosh. What do you want? My break is in, like, 17 minutes and 38 seconds. You better make this quick and don't ask me any hard questions." Yeah, that look.

You don't get those at Chick-Fil-A. You get "my pleasures!" Keep your kid meal toys. This is good enough for me.

Sure, the sandwich is simple. Warm, sometimes scalding hot, chicken in between two pieces of white bread bun. Pure, simple goodness. Throw in some waffle fries and a brownie and you are this close to seeing the light come from the parted clouds and a voice beckoning you to come home.

Now topping it off, you get a "My pleasure" after every "thank you."

GLORIOUS! Cue the angel's singing.

Don't believe me? Try it. Go to your nearest Chick-Fil-A and try it. Heck, get greedy. Get stupid with it.

Try different variations of "Thank you." See what you get. See if you can get the well-groomed teenager to crack under pressure.

What happens if you say:

Thank you, infinity.
Thank you so much.
I just want to say thanks.
Gracias.
Thanks a million!
(In a very depressed voice) Thanks, I guess.
Oh this is my order? Oh, thanks.
Hooray! Thanks!

Try it. You'll probably email me and say, "Justin, you are right. That is awesome! Thank you."

My pleasure.

Old school

It's 10 p.m., do you know where I am?

I've always wondered what prune juice tastes like. I've never tried it. Never really had a desire to. But now I do.

Why?

I go to bed at 10 o'clock these days. I just can't keep my eyes open anymore. The byproduct of going to bed early is drinking prune juice, listening to some Sinatra, talking about the good 'ole days and driving slower.

I'm two for three folks.

This getting old business is foreign. Nice, at times, but very foreign. I love midnight oil. No, not the band. Well, actually, yes the band. Great band. Very underrated. But I do love midnight oil. I love to burn it. Correction. I loved to burn it. Now the match just burns down to my fingers because I have fallen asleep in the process of trying to light it.

My on the road lifestyle is catching up to me. I'm fighting it but it is winning. I can't stay up late anymore. I can't make it to the 11 o'clock news, let alone my main man Conan O'Brien.

"In the year 2000, 31-year-old men will fall asleep at 10 p.m. every night."

That's Armageddon, people. The gas shortage, the stock market crash, the horrendous options for president of this great nation? Puh-leez. That's nothing. This falling asleep early is the beginning of the end.

I'm off to Louisiana and Dallas for back-to-back weekends for week. How will I survive going to bed at nine p.m.? Oh, the humanity!

Dr. Pepper used to work. But caffeine doesn't have an effect anymore. That is a problem, right? I must be immune to it.

Does prune juice keep you awake? Just wondering.