Last night I grabbed dinner at Subway and I’m pretty sure the person behind me in line had never been to a Subway before.
This would have been fine if I was a nicer person, but alas, I am not.
I didn't have dinner the night before hand. Combine that with the fact that I also had woke up late and had other stuff to do(so no breakfast/lunch) and it shouldn’t be difficult to imagine that the only thing that could’ve gotten between me and this sandwich was death by starvation
I’m next in line, practically braced against the glass showcase like a four year old in Baskin Robbins, and having 25 orgasms staring at what will soon be the trappings and trimmings of my footlong sub on italian herbs and cheese.
Mid-coitus, in walks this douchebag, reeking of douche. He is wearing a tulane teeshirt and he must be 40 pounds overweight, easily. All of it is hanging fecklessly over the beltline of his camoflage cargo shorts. He has a long, brown, curly, Dawson Leery-esque bowlcut with a part down the middle.
He struts over to the counter with the dexterity and coordination of a drunk pigeon, plants himself to my right (effectively cutting me in line) and utters “scoozie” - the word flaccid between his acne-framed, crumb-bespeckled lips.
That was it. My mind was made up. This guy was an ass. I owed him exactly zero niceness and his presence between me and the cash register was offensive.
In the ten second that he is squinting up at the menu and I’m waiting for the sandwich artist, the rage smoldering in the tensed muscles of my crossed arms is that of a mother bear. A mother bear whose baby is being stolen by a fat person in a bear-skin coat. And that baby is made of oven roasted chicken and cheese and lettuce and mayonnaise and ranch dressing.
Just as I am about to deliver what would have been the first rude-adult-enforcing-social-norms-in-public comment of my life (in a Subway), his smaller, thinner, more socially adept friend sweeps in from behind, tugs on fat-annoying’s shirt and pulls him to the end of the line.
Fat-annoying doesn’t understand. “Dude, what was that for?”
“You just cut everyone in line,” replies thin-and-sensible.
“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, well….whatever…”
My rage is immediately overpowered by love for thin-and-sensible. The thin-and-sensibles in this world are my favourites, and I can not speak enough to the happiness they bring me on a daily basis. Thin-and-sensibles are the keystone of modern society.
Out of gratitude for thin-and-sensible I decided to let my rage go. Water under the bridge.
As if on cue, the sandwich artist finishes putting on his gloves and, thrilled, I begin constructing what turned out to be (not to toot my own horn) the best sandwich ever contrived in the history of haphazardly throwing ingredients on bread.
Unfortunately, the journey wasn’t quite over.
As I’m moving down the line, fat-annoying fails to answer even the most basic questions about his sandwich. He wants chicken parm. He does not know what size. He does not know what bread. He has never heard of provolone cheese, but accepts it when they don’t have “orange american.”
When asked if he wants a combo, he says “no,” and then asks for a cookie and a drink. The cashier asks again if he wants a combo…since he just made a combo…and fat-annoying replies, “no. Just the sandwich, drink, and cookie.”
The cashier just stares for a few seconds.
At the soda fountain, I am just finishing filling up my cup o' lemonade when he comes over with his XXXL sized cup and asked me what “barq’s is”.
I pretended to not hear him.
I am putting my top on my cup and it is enthralling.
I exited the shop, walk to my car, drive to my house, and sit in my room to feast and write this scathering narrative.
Fin.
No comments:
Post a Comment