[Content Warning: Strong adult language, adult sexuality and situations]
Good afternoon, Debbie. Pay attention, because I’m about to order the greatest goddamn sandwich you’ve ever made in your short career at the Subway Corporation. How long you been here, baby? Three months? That’s adorable. You like it? You wake up inspired every day to craft better sandwiches? I hope so, Debbie, because I’m about to give you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to build the most incredible, motherfucking Oven Roasted Chicken sandwich anyone has ever tasted. You feel me?
Debbie, today is not just another day of you slapping cold cuts and lettuce on some bread like a goddamn assembly-line worker. No, ma’am. Today, you’re going to transcend. Now, take your little ass over to that oven and pull me out a long, warm, 12-inch Italian Herbs and Cheese loaf. Not just any loaf, Debbie. I’m talking about the cheesiest, herbiest, most Italian-ass bread you’ve got back there. You grab that bread like your life depends on it. Hell, Debbie, I want you to grab that loaf like it’s hiding the blueprint to your dreams.
Now, let’s get surgical with this. Slice that bad boy open, smooth as a hot knife through butter. Split it delicately, like you’re opening the legs of a virgin on her wedding night. That’s it. You’re doing great, Debbie. Now, hit me with some mayonnaise. And let me stop you right there—no, you do not wait until the end to put mayo on a sandwich. Who the hell taught you that nonsense? This is America, Debbie. Mayonnaise goes on the bread, not on top of the goddamn ingredients. Slather that shit on thick—don’t get shy on me now.
Beautiful. Now we come to a very important moment. Pay attention, Debbie. No… white… motherfucking… cheese… is going on this sandwich. Did you hear me? Repeat that shit back to me: “No white motherfucking cheese will touch this sandwich.” Good girl. Now, lay some sharp Cheddar on there. Nice. That’s the color of cheese we’re talking about—orange. Bold. Unapologetic. Just like me.
Now, we get to the star of the show: the chicken. Chicken, Debbie, is the most versatile meat in the world. Did you know that? Fried chicken. BBQ chicken. Chicken soup. Chicken and waffles. Chicken and dumplings. Hell, chicken can be anything. You see that piece of chicken right there? Third one down from the top? That’s the one. Put that glorious hunk of bird on my sandwich. Gently now, like you’re tucking a baby into bed.
Next, we turn up the heat. Crank that toaster to 475 degrees and let’s toast this motherfucker like it owes us rent money. While that’s cooking, let me ask you something, Debbie—are you familiar with Henry V? No? Figures. Let me enlighten you: “It will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another man’s sword will.” You like that? That’s Shakespeare, Debbie. Fancy as hell.
All right, pull that masterpiece out and let’s cool it down with some lettuce. You know how every great movie gets better with Samuel L. Jackson in it? Same deal with lettuce on a sandwich. Lettuce is the Samuel L. Jackson of sandwich toppings. It brings that crispy coolness every sandwich needs. So, pile that shit on, Debbie. Don’t be stingy.
Now here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna say some words, and you’re gonna add the ingredients I name, one by one. Ready? Tomatoes. Cucumbers. Black olives. Red onions. STOP! Did I say pickles, Debbie? DID I SAY MOTHERFUCKING PICKLES? No, I did not! So why in the holy hell are you reaching for pickles like they’re part of this sandwich? Did Jared himself rise from the depths of prison to whisper in your ear, “Add pickles to Samuel L. Jackson’s sandwich”? No? Then back the fuck off with those pickles, Debbie. I didn’t ask for them, and I sure as hell don’t want them. Crisis averted. Let’s move on.
Now, to make things right, let’s add two or three slices of crispy bacon. There we go. That’s it, Debbie. You’re killing it now. But we’re not done yet. You see that shaker of seasoning over there? Pick it up, and I want you to shake it so hard I can hear your titties clapping together. Don’t be shy, Debbie. That’s the sound of culinary excellence right there.
All right, here comes the grand finale. I want you to take that magnificent creation and cut it—not in half—but into four motherfucking pieces. Yes, I know it’s unorthodox, but trust me, it’s the way this sandwich is meant to be enjoyed. You can do it, Debbie. They don’t have to be perfect. Just make the cuts and let’s wrap this masterpiece up.
Speaking of wrapping, let me tell you something: I’ve been in over 100 films, Debbie. More than any other goddamn actor in history. But do I know how to wrap a sandwich? Hell no. That’s your department. Just make sure it’s tight enough to keep it from leaking all over my lap but loose enough so I don’t have to fight it open like it’s a locked briefcase. Perfect.
Now, stick some extra napkins in the bag, because I’m gonna need them, and grab me a bag of BBQ Sun Chips. You don’t mind, do you? Good. How much do I owe you? What the hell do you mean you don’t accept Apple Pay?
[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, August 18, 2015.]
