image via here
I tend to get unreasonably angry at minor nuisances. Like socks losing their elasticity. I fucking hate that shit. It's like wearing a floppy cotton garbage bag over your foot. But instead of tossing the socks away and putting on a new pair, I act like it's the end of the world. BECAUSE IT IS! Same goes for butterflies, I always get mad when someone compliments them. Oh, you think they're beautiful? Fuck that, they are CREEPY!
But there is one group of people in this city who, and I strongly believe this, actually overreacts to more minuscule shit than I do. These people are deli sandwich-makers. Holy shit, talk about acting as if all is lost when you tell them you'd rather have provolone than Swiss. These guys are some of the meanest motherfuckers on the planet. They should be hunting down Al Qaeda operatives in the Afghan mountains. The way they look at me when I ask them to add sweet peppers to my sandwich, I assume, is similar to the look a serial killer gives a prostitute before he chops off her head with bread knife and makes a toupee out of her scalp. Where did this transaction go wrong? Did I spit on your wife? All I wanted was Swiss-fucking-cheese, pal, not your first-born child.
Ever have them mess up the order and then have to correct them mid-sandwich-making? I have. It's terrible. It's like defusing a bomb; you have to go about it in the most delicate way possible.
Me: Uhhh, no mayo. Please, no mayo.
(Specifically said ‘no mayo’ while ordering)
Sandwich Man: YOU NO WANT MAYO NOW?
(Stares at me like I'm Hitler)
All of this could be in my head, but I doubt it. I've seen these guys lose their fucking mind on people. It's gotten to the point where I just let them do whatever they want, eat around the shit I don’t like, and go back to staring at my computer while on the verge of tears.
These guys are cowboys. They have more power than Bill Gates in their respective area of expertise, and rule with an iron fist. You want Onions? YOU GET SPROUTS! Sometimes these guys don’t even clean their knives while switching condiments. And I don’t care about this because of sanitary reasons (that bucket of water they swish the knife around in was dipped in the Fountain of Youth, so no worries), no, I care because when I bite into a turkey sandwich, I do not want to taste peanut butter. EVER. And who the fuck is going to the deli and ordering a peanut butter sandwich anyway? What are you five-years old? Go to the store and buy your own jar and make it yourself. Even I’m not that lazy.
But the sandwich makers will continue their reign of terror, because there is no one out there who can give them an attitude adjustment. Aside from physically fighting with one of them – not recommended, they are squatty and carry multiple knives - no matter what you say, no matter how much you shake your little white-collar fist, you will not have an affect on their attitude. It’s like global warming. And so we’re all eternally doomed to choke-down gobs of chipotle mayo when all we wanted was some spicy mustard. Oh, the fucking horror.