Death By Bloody Mary

There are 2 types of people in this world; assholes and douche-nozzles. Assholes are just that. They walk through life trying to make everyone miserable because their drunk stepfather used to berate them about their lack of self-esteem whilst removing a broom handle from their nether regions. Basically making sure that you realize they will never amount to anything more than the top of the custodial arts career ladder. Douche-nozzles are a little different. They are basically the blank stare on the face of life. The things they do tend to confound anyone with an ounce of intelligence. They don’t necessarily mean to be rude, they just don’t possess the brain power to fathom complex situations like opening a can of soda or putting their underwear on their ass instead of their head.

As I am walking into the local deli (One which I don’t usually frequent) with a couple co-workers, I notice a somewhat intelligent girl behind the counter making the sandwiches. Thank God. So my compatriot orders his sandwich from her and like Warren Buffet making a deal, she makes him a money sandwich. Sweet, I’m next. Then, like the cold squirt from a frozen garden hose, I hear the voice of disappointment. Some guy is making my sandwich now. I order a BBQ Beef with pepper jack cheese. After a few minutes, Sir Nozzle informs me that there is no pepper jack. So I order provolone. All the while I am very polite as not to end up with a nose goblin or some of his genetics on my sandwich. Next up, would you like lettuce and tomato. I must take a detour off the highway here for a second. I HATE tomatoes! I would rather stick my face in a jar of moldy mayonnaise that has been in the sun for a week than eat tomatoes (And I hate mayo). I clearly state to this asshat that I didn’t want tomatoes. PERIOD.

Fast forward to my office; where I commence to complain about the lack of copious amounts of BBQ Beef on my sandwich. For seven bucks, I demand at least the bread be covered. No bare spots. This was not the case. Then I saw it. Something red peaking out from under the lettuce. No, No, NOOOO! What part of no tomatoes didn’t you understand? Was it the “No” or the “Tomatoes”? Maybe your stepdad beat the hearing out of you or the meth lab fumes killed off what was left of your brain. Either way, you will join “Bagel Boy” in hell when my wrath comes to fruition. Prepare to choke on 50 pounds of tomato stuffed in every orifice you have and a couple I will create.