My life lacks anything resembling ambition, yet, it doesn’t matter how engrossed I am in a Maury rerun or how diligently I’m not applying for jobs, my apathetic demeanor completely subsides the instant I dedicate myself to crafting a sandwich.
Today inspiration struck. I sprang from the couch, foraged for my wallet in the garbage-filled carpet, and threw actual underwear on along with my bathrobe. Minutes later I was at the corner store, passively refusing to abide by their footwear policy and raiding their deli for turkey, pastrami, bacon, and roast beef, trying to maximize the number of animal lives this sandwich would encompass.
Instinctually, I picked up cheese and was sure to grab the lettuce and tomatoes that happened to be on sale. I smiled as I reflected on how wonderful it is when cheap labor from exploited migrant workers can pass the savings on to me.
Home again, I became a one-man bladestorm, slicing toppings while meticulously sculpting the towering meat stack’s contours for optimal mouth insertion. Once perfected, the mountain of post-animal cuts was draped with cheese and slid into the oven to ooze-ify into a congealed, caloric pleasure cluster. Soon melted and toasty, I removed my creation and applied a thin mayonnaise layer—enough to taste, but not enough that it’d spark a super storm of self-loathing and hot flashes upon ingestion. From there I assembled my masterpiece; today I was an artist and thick-cut Jewish rye was my canvas.
My knees weakened after the first bite while wave after of unadulterated bliss resonated through me. A second later tragedy struck; something in my digestive tract dropped as if I was on a carnival thrill ride. Panic-stricken, I’d been coerced into a crossroads and now every moment counted.
This rampaging dumpage was not going to wait, yet my magnum opus would never again be in pristine munching condition. With a torrent of butt water impatiently knocking on the inside of my back door and my succulent yum-inducer growing colder by the second, I made the rational adult choice. I disrobed completely and took my sandwich in the bathroom with me.
It was the safe, sensible choice. I couldn’t sense if this bathroom summoning was for a simple, yet urgent, pinch-off or if this was going to be another thirty-minute saga. Ground rules were needed for this adventure. Nothing except the sandwich was to be touched until said sandwich was finished. Further, there would be no Five-Second Rule—any morsel carelessly fumbled was considered lost forever and, likely, now covered in pube trimmings. Risk was to be mitigated; I didn’t want this endeavor to end up as nothing more than a cautionary tale that’s relayed whenever people ask me how I contracted a parasite.
The first portion of the dump was sloppy and brash; there was no tact to it, just unchecked aggression that shot out of me the instant I sat down. I remained there, tranquil and serene, while I filled my mouth with hot deliciousness, not even caring that there was to be no wiping, no courtesy flushing, and no picture taking until my sandwich was gone. Feelings of disgust melted away; I had committed to this.
The latter segment became methodic. It took persistence and some gentle coaxing, much like rescuing a cat out of a tree or getting two buckets unstuck from each other. But, savoring every bite, I summoned strength from my sandwich. The whole struggle soon softened into this harmoniously-poetic rhythm with me serving as nothing more than a medium for which a sandwich could travel through on its never-ending journey.
Within in eight minutes, there was no more left to dump and no more flawless sandwich paragon left to be consumed. Exhausted from all of the excitement, I again listened to my body and fell asleep right there, completely naked, on the toilet.