Epic Victories and Crushing Defeats in the Realm of Sandwich
A few weeks back, I finally got into sandwiches. A particularly delicious BLT was the cause, and I won't tease you with the succulent and erotically charged details that you can never fully experience, ever.
Suffice to say, it got me thinking about the possibilities two pieces of bread can hold. The first attempt was a crude, primitive sandwich, consisting of turkey, 91 cent mozarella cheese, and whitewheat bread. (don't ask. Let's just say that you're going to be getting diabetes and I'm going to be getting rock-hard erections when I'm 80. You don't want to say it? Fine, I'll say it, and say it's from both of us.)
Harnessing the power of a microwave, which wikipedia tells me "can result in severe burns." Unfortunately, I permenantly lost my sight in a freak accident both before and after, but not during the reading of that excerpt. (don't ask. Let's just say that you're going to be shooting milk out of your anus on the hour, every hour, in about 6 months, and I'm going to be building log cabins out of pudding and selling them to art dealers.)
Moving on: I fused the cheese, bread, and flesh into a single object that can never be taken apart or destroyed, then consumed it. It was suprisingly bountiful in flavor, but it could have been better. Much better.
I was missing many things. My checkbook, my wallet, my phone, part of my thumb and possibly one or both of kidneys, but none of those relate to this story in any way.
The things I was missing were condiments and spices. I don't mean fancy things like goose liver and tumeric. I mean things like mustard and pepper. Furthermore, a quick check of my pockets revealed that I could touch myself in public via a clever hole without anyone realizing. A more extensive check revealed that the existence of previously established clever hole precluded the possibility of money being in previously established pockets. Presently established godfuckingdamn it.
So, with the sweat of my brow, I extracted a few dollars from the harsh and infertile penny jar then went to a grocery store. I went on a whirlwind tour of spending, carousing, gambling and whoring. I'm not sure she was working "it" at that moment, in the grocers, but I am sure that she was a whore. I purchased "durkees", a cunning southern sauce. I purchased "for maximum value mustard", which I pray is a near cousin of actual mustard and not a dollar store variant of rat poison. Why would I suspect that you ask? Let me illuminate your empty head, pilgrim. By removing all the letters but the first letter of each word, we get FMVM. I feel that even the most thickskulled in our number should be able to make the tiny deductive step neccessary for establishing reasonable doubt of possible proof. Moving on: I furthermore purchased lettuce in a bag. I inquired within, and was assured that it was fresh by a local retard who is happier and wealthier than me. And I don't want to again address issues of my sexual orientation (straight and very narrow. Just like my penis. It's like a garden hose. I have to coil it in my pants or it'll get crimped.), but anyway, regardless, forthcoming, I think the retarded gentleman was "packing some serious penis heat", as a more discrete statesman once said. So, the real question is, who will put him out of his misery? He clearly can't enjoy life as much as me, with my tiny apartment, high rent, painful rectal itch, and deep loathing for all humanity including myself.
I also purchased several varities of curdled cows milk, which were cleverly remarketed as "cheese". Well done gentlemen, but don't think I didn't notice. You have been warned.
I came home. I put the various components together. I reached for the pepper without looking. I reached for the pepper with looking. I reached for the pepper in the grocery bag. I reached for the pepper in places there had previously been no pepper. I frantically reached over the entire kitchen multiple times for the pepper. Finally, I reached for the godfuckingdamn it and placed it slowly in my mouth, savoring the remarkable but spiceless flavor.
Postscript: The sandwich was disposed of. No pepper once, shame on me. No pepper twice, I throw away the fucking sandwich.
Second Postscript: I called up 6 or 7 sandwich shops in town that night to complain. From Subway to Jimmy Johns, from local businesses to monolithic multinational corporations, I complained without distinction. I complained about the seasoning. I complained about the service. I complained about other ingredients that never, technically interacted with my mouth and never technically came from thier store. I feel no guilt.! I needed to complain and curse regarding a sandwich with someone. I probably didn't "need" to threaten them, the lives of their families, or mention that "my gang" had been "casing" the "joint" and was going to "light it up" if they didn't give me "satisfaction", but I did. It was a mistake borne soley out of a desire for justice.
Suffice to say, it got me thinking about the possibilities two pieces of bread can hold. The first attempt was a crude, primitive sandwich, consisting of turkey, 91 cent mozarella cheese, and whitewheat bread. (don't ask. Let's just say that you're going to be getting diabetes and I'm going to be getting rock-hard erections when I'm 80. You don't want to say it? Fine, I'll say it, and say it's from both of us.)
Harnessing the power of a microwave, which wikipedia tells me "can result in severe burns." Unfortunately, I permenantly lost my sight in a freak accident both before and after, but not during the reading of that excerpt. (don't ask. Let's just say that you're going to be shooting milk out of your anus on the hour, every hour, in about 6 months, and I'm going to be building log cabins out of pudding and selling them to art dealers.)
Moving on: I fused the cheese, bread, and flesh into a single object that can never be taken apart or destroyed, then consumed it. It was suprisingly bountiful in flavor, but it could have been better. Much better.
I was missing many things. My checkbook, my wallet, my phone, part of my thumb and possibly one or both of kidneys, but none of those relate to this story in any way.
The things I was missing were condiments and spices. I don't mean fancy things like goose liver and tumeric. I mean things like mustard and pepper. Furthermore, a quick check of my pockets revealed that I could touch myself in public via a clever hole without anyone realizing. A more extensive check revealed that the existence of previously established clever hole precluded the possibility of money being in previously established pockets. Presently established godfuckingdamn it.
So, with the sweat of my brow, I extracted a few dollars from the harsh and infertile penny jar then went to a grocery store. I went on a whirlwind tour of spending, carousing, gambling and whoring. I'm not sure she was working "it" at that moment, in the grocers, but I am sure that she was a whore. I purchased "durkees", a cunning southern sauce. I purchased "for maximum value mustard", which I pray is a near cousin of actual mustard and not a dollar store variant of rat poison. Why would I suspect that you ask? Let me illuminate your empty head, pilgrim. By removing all the letters but the first letter of each word, we get FMVM. I feel that even the most thickskulled in our number should be able to make the tiny deductive step neccessary for establishing reasonable doubt of possible proof. Moving on: I furthermore purchased lettuce in a bag. I inquired within, and was assured that it was fresh by a local retard who is happier and wealthier than me. And I don't want to again address issues of my sexual orientation (straight and very narrow. Just like my penis. It's like a garden hose. I have to coil it in my pants or it'll get crimped.), but anyway, regardless, forthcoming, I think the retarded gentleman was "packing some serious penis heat", as a more discrete statesman once said. So, the real question is, who will put him out of his misery? He clearly can't enjoy life as much as me, with my tiny apartment, high rent, painful rectal itch, and deep loathing for all humanity including myself.
I also purchased several varities of curdled cows milk, which were cleverly remarketed as "cheese". Well done gentlemen, but don't think I didn't notice. You have been warned.
I came home. I put the various components together. I reached for the pepper without looking. I reached for the pepper with looking. I reached for the pepper in the grocery bag. I reached for the pepper in places there had previously been no pepper. I frantically reached over the entire kitchen multiple times for the pepper. Finally, I reached for the godfuckingdamn it and placed it slowly in my mouth, savoring the remarkable but spiceless flavor.
Postscript: The sandwich was disposed of. No pepper once, shame on me. No pepper twice, I throw away the fucking sandwich.
Second Postscript: I called up 6 or 7 sandwich shops in town that night to complain. From Subway to Jimmy Johns, from local businesses to monolithic multinational corporations, I complained without distinction. I complained about the seasoning. I complained about the service. I complained about other ingredients that never, technically interacted with my mouth and never technically came from thier store. I feel no guilt.! I needed to complain and curse regarding a sandwich with someone. I probably didn't "need" to threaten them, the lives of their families, or mention that "my gang" had been "casing" the "joint" and was going to "light it up" if they didn't give me "satisfaction", but I did. It was a mistake borne soley out of a desire for justice.
posted by Tristan Tzara at 7:51 PM
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