Let's Do(n't) Lunch

I try to be a good boy.

(Really.)

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.

Fuck

Ing

Sand

Wich.

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."