Worked for Visiting Rug-Rats. While out-of-town relatives went shopping at the local mall from hell, I was to watch and take care of two kids, ages six and seven. After fifteen minutes I suddenly had the urge for several vodka tonics.

Bundling the little tax deductions up for the inclement weather (why must long strips of duct tape always stick to itself before application to mouths and hands?) I headed for my destination to procure liquid tolerance of idiot cousins.

Having neglected to securely fasten the blindfolds, the female interloper spotted a Wendy's and demanded a Frosty. Not wanting to disappoint the tyrannical tyke I thought food might buy me some quiet time to mull over a homicidal plot for Christmas with my kinsfolk.

It was high noon, but the line moved quickly. After not receiving any invitations from child kidnappers to watch the little darlings, I ordered small burgers, fries, and a double cheese-burger for me. I told little Mata-Hari and Joe Stalin Junior they'd get Frosties if they ate ALL their food. They did and quite quickly.

Apparently their food-stamp parents squander the welfare on cigarettes, PBR, and Oxy and neglect taking the small Charles Manson family look-a-likes out for fast food or any food that wasn't road-kill. I knew Junior would be OK when he produced an open switch-blade from his boot, laid it beside his fries, and shot me a look daring me to reach for one. I didn't.

The food (I just tasted my cheeseburger) was hot, well-stacked with lettuce, tomato, and red onion, and good. The place was clean, the restroom clean (I hid in the stall for 20 minutes hoping for an abduction, but alas, it was not to be), and friendly staff.

I kept my promise and bought Frosties for the Children of the Corn (Stalin Junior would be sitting behind me for the drive home) and soon the spawn of Satan were fast asleep with visions of anthrax and apocalypse for the holiday season.

Thank you Wendy's of Red Bank.