"I'm just a #3 kinda guy"

So I had a pretty stressful morning. I hadn't heard anything on the process of this home buying nightmare I've subjected myself too. My mother, who evidently suffers from a self-defeating personality disorder, told me that this is a fun and rewarding experience. I think I might buy her a metal cilice for Christmas this year.
Not that it has anything to do with the nature of this blog, but currently, I am waiting to hear from the underwriter on loan approval. The process thus far has been about as "fun and rewarding" as removing my wisdom teeth with a train locomotive. Apparently, I had missed a payment on one of my credit cards sometime around the turn of the millennium and the VA is questioning it. So this may hold the process up yet another geologic eon.
Anyway, to aid in the management of this stress, I decided to go to lunch with a coworker to a burger joint calls Wimpy's Burgers. It's a pretty dismal looking place to say the least, but the burgers are fabulous. I think every town has a place like this. The walls are made out of galvanized aluminum siding with a 1/4 inch thick coat of off white primer painted on. There are single paned windows all around to compliment the pictures of 50's diner paintings on the walls with the token shot of a old Cadillac. The owner is Indian or Middle eastern but super friendly and clearly really bad at accounting, since the burgers are far better than any other fast food chain. He looks to be about 55-65 years of age but is probably more like 80 since he doesn't eat his own burgers. It has a total of 4 parking spots in front, the temperature inside is maintained by an evaporative cooler built before water was invented, and it is usually attached to a gas station/bodega.

Nice place.

Anyway, I walk through the front door which is clearly marked by the over-sized sleigh bell banging against the glass pane. The owner, who is also the cashier is a very friendly man, who you can't help but to be friendly too, regardless of the shitty mood you are in. There is one person in line in front of me and I anxiously look at the menu, sizing up the different options, to accurately satisfy the correct burger to cost ratio I am calculating in my head.
The person in front completes their order and I move up, ready to place my request for the oily goodness I am about to carpet bomb my digestive system with. He takes one look at me and says:

"#3! How would you like your burger cooked?"

....

"Wait... what?"

"You do want number 3, my friend?"

"How the fuck did you know that?"

"You just look like a #3 kinda guy, my friend!"

... Let me explain what the "#3" is. First, there is the burger. The burger consists of a medium sized sesame seed bun, two beef patties, two slices of cheese, two slices of tomato, pickles, onions, lettuce and the normal ration of ketchup, mustard, and mayo. It is not a small sandwich. You also get a bag of seasoned fries which are approximately 30% larger than those you would receive at say, Mount Olympus. The drink is a 32 oz cup with "the good ice". We all know what "the good ice" is. So by this point we are probably up into the 900-1100 calorie range, dwarfing that of the Taco Bell drive thru. But hey, it's Friday, and this day sucks. Why not brighten it up with a stroke?

So I'm standing there trying to figure out how this ambassador of angus knew exactly what I wanted and just started blurting out random messages such as: "extra pickles" and "Pepsi". How did he know I wanted the coronary special? What gave it away, I wasn't looking at that particular number so it's not like he could have followed my visual reference. I wasn't acting out my choices on my fingers like an idiot who needs secondary processing devices to formulate a clear thought. I hadn't said anything to anyone. Was it my demeanor? Did I project #3 in my aura? Maybe it was my sizable breasts and beer gut. Did my second chin give it away?

A few seconds after this guy deployed the shock and awe sales tactic, I paid for my meal and returned to work. Fantastic burger to say the least and the fries met my expectations (something similar to drinking a glass of season-all flavored hydrogenated oil). At the moment, I'm still crunching on the crushed ice like a sexually frustrated junior high school kid.

What can I say? I guess I'm just a #3 kinda guy.