An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Friday, January 21, 2011

Let's Do(n't) Lunch

I try to be a good boy.


Instead of spending obscene amounts of money at Starbucks and Starbucks-like establishment, staring aimlessly at baristabreast, flitting away profane amounts of money on hot, brown, liquid, mood-stabilizing narcotic, I make my coffee at home. The days when I work 7a-3p, the coffee-maker is auto-programmed to start doing its caffeinated thing at 5:16am. 8a-4p, it goes makey-makey at 6:16am.

Why 6:16 and not 6:15? Because I'm weird. Because I have this fear that, if I do things on the hour, or half-hour, or quarter-hour, that I'll be just another boring simpleton.

Seriously. I have problems. Join me in the happy place known as Sicktitude. I meet you there at 12:07. Let's do lunch.

Speaking of lunch, I make that the night before work, too. Well, most days I do. I hate making my lunch. It's boring, monotonous, laborious, mundane, and it makes me feel like Dilbert or Charlie Brown, or their fuckchild offspring.

The accoutrements don't bother me. The trappings. The two clementines. The cheese-stick. The salty, the sweet. The carrot sticks and ranch lube. The Caffeine Free Diet Coke. I don't mind throwing all that shit into my bag. I like it, actually-- the comforting regularity of my lunchtime accessories. When clementines go out of season, I typically ponder donning a black armband for a month.

The problem I have with making my lunch is the "main course," as it were.





I cannot stand making sandwiches. Just thinking about it makes me want to pull out all my pubes and use them to weave a hammock for a gerbil.

In reality, I know it's not a big deal. Because I make the world's most boring sandwiches, it's even less of a big deal than it would be if I utilized things like onions, flavored mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato, and whatever else sophisticated people put on sandwiches. I don't know-- watercress? Pistachio crumbles? Fig Newton slices?

I have no idea. I am not sophisticated. I have hairy knees. I am a human enema. I hate making sandwiches.

I just... I don't know. It's ridiculous. All I use is bread, some sliced-up, processed, caramel-colored meat sliver, sliced-up, processed, yellow-colored cheese sliver, and some sort of lubricant-- usually ranch dressing. Sometimes, I'll get the aforementioned four ingredients out of the refrigerator with a lot of huffing and/or puffing and I'll look at my wife in despair and say,

"I just can't."

And, sometimes, I really just can't. I'll throw the clementines and the cheese stick and the carrots and the sweet and the salty and the CFDC into the bag and I'll stop on the way to work for a wrap (I know, that's so DIFFERENT than a fucking sandwich, right?) or some other horseshit. Or, on the less fortunate days, I will just eat the aforementioned supplements with no "main." Because I am a pathetic, hairy-kneed sonofafuck.

If I could resurrect one person from the dead, I think it would be John Montagu, the Fourth Earl of Sandwich-- the stocking-footed gentleman who is generally credited with inventing the sandwich. I'd like to roust him from his dusty slumber, pull him by his periwig into my kitchen and have him look at my bread, my fake-ass meat and cheese and my dressing and ask him if he is proud of what he did for us miserable schleps.

And then, after he'd answer, no doubt with Benjamin Franklin-like pride in his earth-changing invention, I'd say, "Good. Then make my fucking lunch, you goofy little bitch."


  1. Your sandwiches sound horrible. are you in need of a sandwich-intervention? my husband and I hate those types of sandwiches too, which is why we buy some sort of bread the deli has to slice and get our meat and cheese cut at the deli counter too. Plus we use those fancysmancy mayos, mustards, pickles, and weird lettuce of some sort. I'd say we're pretentious BUT since I live in the south, I think one disqualifies the other.

  2. I also do things on weird minutes. I get up at 6:53 or 6:47 or something slightly off. It bugs the shit out of my husband!

  3. Okay, Deeds is right. You need a sandwintervention.

    STOP using that shit, instead buy pitta breads, pop them in the toaster and wait til they do that thing where they sort of.. bloat. Meanwhile in a mug (or any other easily cleaned container) schlop in mayonnaise and attack that processed shit with scissors. Little pieces of ham and cheese go into the mayo. Then grab a couple of lettuce leaves and do the same. Mix it all up until it looks like someone barfed up some coleslaw, slice your toasted pitta in half and dollop on the weird mixture.

    I guarantee it tastes a damn sight better than it looks.

    Alternatively, go to Subway.

  4. Harley--

    I love getting the 'cross the pond perspective. Only someone from the U.K. would place the words "mayonnaise", "barfed", "coleslaw", and "scissors" together.

    Don't ever stop reading this blog.


Got something to say? Rock on with your badass apron!