McNo-Can-Do #2

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Man, This Sandwich is Awful.

There’s something about that sandwich that I just don’t get. When I eat a sandwich, I have pretty low expectations. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly expect it to display standard sandwich attributes like: two slices of bread should be involved. Some kind of meat product in there somewhere. Perhaps a slice of cheese, tomato, or if I’m feeling pretty chancy? A pickle.

Nothing too complicated though. And I don’t remember going out of the norm for this specific piece of lunchtime construction. No capers, nothing with “Dijon” in the title, and none of those pickled carrot things I have to pick out of those Vietnamese sandwiches I get downtown. One time, I had to take a crap behind a dumpster during my lunch break at some shit-purposed bead/incense shop retail job because some lady got shot in our only bathroom during a failed robbery that day. If it weren’t for those pickled carrot thingies, I bet I could have waited until I got home. Plus, I could have wiped myself properly before getting on the bus to meet up with my folks for dinner at The Cheesecake Factory. The cops refused to let me back in the place before I left, and my parents repeatedly noted how much I smelled like human shit. I kept telling them “I must have stepped in dog shit on my way over, and that dog must have eaten Taco Bell,” or something like that.

Whatever.

There were no fringe items used in the making of today’s sandwich. Elementary cafeteria, prison lunchroom style.

So what happened here? Let’s look at this situation, play by play, effort by effort, layer by goddamned layer. First, I got out the bread, then…oh yeah.

I think it’s the bread I used.

My girlfriend bought it, and the packaging was really complicated. As if the manufacturer was trying to protect the consumer from bread-related radiation. There were two or three bags between which to navigate before hitting breadrock, and the loaf was approximately half the size of the standard. Little stones and twigs were falling all over the place when I pulled two slices from the hermetically-sealed trio-bag. And I bet that baked disaster cost a fortune.

You’d think that the extra cost involved would demand that the rocks be ground down a little more. Or that they would remove the twigs from the mixture, like a better quality ounce-bag. It’s funny how bread + “organic” + extra $$$ = me with an explosive rectal disorder. But then again, maybe it was that weird tasting cheese.

Where the hell is “humus” cheese from, anyway? Is that country near Yugoslavia? How exactly does one buy products from Humustan, huh?

Oh, here we go again. Pardon. Excuse me and my shitnami. I really need to stop dating these patchouli-wookie girls.