Dairy Queen finds its way into a country song pretty often. Why? Because it’s a part of small town, blue collar life.
It’s one of the middle of America spots we all love, usually run by the town’s high schoolers. It was no different for me, as I worked at the DQ in high school. It was sort of the “cool” spot to work, if you could find a way in. Once in, however, it took on a life of its own, causing you to fear and hate things most people enjoy.
Here are 10 signs you worked at Dairy Queen in high school…
Little League teams scare the s-t out of you.
Nothing, I mean nothing, was worse than seeing 45 mini-devils parade through the door after a Little League game. To make matters worse, they didn’t all order cones. Some got Blizzards, some got triple dip bullshit that would make the cone break off in the dip cans. They jumped and crawled on the counters like a miniature version of the Walking Dead. They were messy, they stared you down, and they acted like they owned you.
Brownie batter has a different meaning for you.
No, that’s not a bucket of tar to fix the highway – it’s brownie batter. Feel like breaking 25 spoons? Brownie batter.
Nothing was worse than the word “extra” when it came to a Blizzard.
“Give me a medium blizzard with Oreos and extra Reese’s Pieces.” As you take down the order, you know the thing is about to blow up in your hand as you mix. The urge to turn around and launch it at the customer’s head was real.
Seniority was great.
When you started out, you did floors and all the nasty stuff. Towards the end you just walked around a lot and always acted like you forgot something while everyone else below you did the clean-up.
Old people complain about ice cream a lot.
There wasn’t enough of this, or too much of that. The cake had too little fudge, the cone was too small. Old folks were serious about ice cream and you learned how to make them happy.
Your sense of time was impeccable within 10 min of closing.
Every sign of a headlight scared you shitless. Was this asshole really going to come in and order when we close in 5 minutes? You had tricks to make it seem like the place was closed, keep driving guy.
The best things weren’t on the menu.
You created. You were an artist. You made things for yourself that were better than what was on the menu. My strawberry cheesecake parfait still reigns supreme.
Big crowds bother you.
When Dairy Queen was popping on a Friday night, you might as well stick a DJ in there and charge a cover. It seemed like every person in town found their way to your lobby at some point. Nothing was worse than a line out the door, the machines running out of ice cream, you’re getting monster orders, and having to help new employees. You contemplated walking out, on more than one occasion.
You probably worked with friends.
The best part about DQ was the fact you probably worked with friends. Without them you wouldn’t have lasted. You found ways to have a good time (we played Wiffle Ball out back) and mess with new employees. At the same time, you hate the sight of a red and blue polos.
You never flipped s-t.
Flipping the blizzard? Psh.
