WARNING: May be offensive to fans of Russian and French salad dressings.
Let's go the the deli. Maybe a club sandwich will serve as a soothing balm on a downhill day. They make a mean club.
Regular Guy's not at the counter. No customers either, which is odd.
A teen-age girl pops her head up. Can she help me?
Club to go, please, on toasted wheat. Easy on the mayo.
She looks at me like I just gave a 45-minute lecture on particle physics, using all the big words. Sorry, we're out of clubs.
Could you make one?
Lost Girl says she's not allowed.
Not allowed to make a flippin' club sandwich?
Lost Girl says she hasn't been trained on the meat slicer.
(What? Does she even work here? I wonder if she's been trained on the bloody damn toaster).
How about a salad w/Italian?
Lost Girl thrusts two foil packs across the counter. One says French, the other Russian. Blecch. French dressing is mostly mayo and catsup , Russian is pretty much straight catsup. Yecch. Get these atrocities away from me. Italian, please?
Don't have any. Translation: Can't find it.
I no longer want a club sandwich. I just want a club, so I can beat this Baby Seal to death with it. I settle for a hot dog and chips. Lost Girl does manage to serve me a pickle wedge with it. It's a minor miracle, but it's enough to keep me from hurtling over the counter and giving some serious "hands-on" training with the meat slicer.
When I'm old and decaying in some horrid state-run nursing home I hope I don't need to trust Lost Girl with my bedpan. Or maybe I do.