Today I walked down the street to Quiznos (They have a pepper bar) for lunch. This is a pretty happenin’ place most days. Lots of business folks, bums, college students, etc. The line can be long, but it tends to move pretty quickly. Today the line did not move as quickly as it should. This is an open letter to the guy in front of me today. (Warning: language only family-friendly if you happen to be The Osbornes)
Dear Asshole,
This fact may have been lost on you, but you’re in a popular dining establishment during a busy time of day. There are a dozen people standing behind you, waiting to order their lunch. There is a giant gap between you and the guy in front of you that you caused. Allow me to tell you several things.
For starters, we’re talking about a god damned sandwich, here, not a commissioned work of art. They’re slinging bread and processed meat, not painting the ceiling of the Sistine Fucking Chapel.
It does not matter which employee makes your sandwich. There’s a formula. Don’t muck up their little lunch-time conveyor belt by requesting a specific person specially make your sandwich.
If you order a sandwich with a special name, eat the damn thing the way it’s made. Adding, removing, and substituting the ingredients until you get something wholly unlike the sandwich you actually ordered is a douche move, especially when the instructions to modify the original sandwich into the one you really want are twice as long as just building the thing from scratch.
You already know what you want. Make all of your requests up front. If you only want bacon on one half of the sandwich, but not that half, don’t wait until the guy is about to drop the bacon before you “Oh, and…” him. While we’re talking about half of a sandwich, you ordered one sandwich, quit trying to make one half of it look completely unlike the other half.
More to the point, you self-absorbed dickbag, if you have such specific and precise requirements of your lunch menu, go home and make it your damn self and get the hell out of my way.
Also? The people on the other side of that little glass divider have to put up with pricks like you all day, every day. You’re living off of daddy’s trust fund while you study English literature and try to find a girl desperate and drunk enough to sleep with you. In other words: the fact that the large, irritated looking black man making your sandwich didn’t reach across the counter and slap the shit out of you automatically makes him a better person. Cut the condescending tone.
Use a please, or a thank you, or at least act like there is a single cell floating around that colossal waste of space that has a ghost of a clue that you’re awfully damn fortunate to be in a position where you can pay someone else a 200% markup to make you a motherfucking sandwich.
You know what? On second thought, never mind all that about the sandwich: just do the world a favor and choke on the damn thing.
Hugs & Kisses,
-Pete
Tags: Open Letter, Quiznos
Damn.
Day = Made
I almost thought we were in the same line the other day, but then I realized that the FL douche also had coupons. FML
For starters, we’re talking about a god damned sandwich, here, not a commissioned work of art. They’re slinging bread and processed meat, not painting the ceiling of the Sistine Fucking Chapel.
This is why you rock!