I went to Subway for dinner last night, and there was this Effing B in front of me taking forever with her order. She looked like some aging hipster, and she had a 10 year old boy in tow. She wasn't ordering for herself, just for him.
Just to put this story in perspective, I need to take a dump. Bad. But this is the kind of establishment that, in order to ward off vagrants, has no public restrooms. So I think, "All right, I'll just order this sandwich, won't ask for them to build it to my painstaking specifications, and hustle the two blocks back to my apartment where I can shit in peace."
Oh ho HO! What the hell was I thinking?
So this Effing B ponies up to the unwitting, frail sandwich artist and asks, "Does your bread have sugar in it?"
The child behind the counter (1 part ambivalence, 1 part goth, 1 part sloth) pauses for a wide-eyed moment, shocked that somebody actually asked her for something beyond six-inch/footlong, white/wheat, american/pepper jack. She tries to explain to the woman that the bread is made off-site, that it comes to the store in thin, frozen logs that have to be thawed and proofed and baked; none of the measuring and mixing and guar-gumming happens in the shop.
Mid-explanation, the Effing B doesn't appear to be taking it well. I take a moment to weigh the pros and cons of speaking up. Do I let them stand in confusion? How long will that take? If I say something, will that just prolong the time between now and my glorious dump? I chime in, a tad impatiently:
"I think that all bread - as a rule - is made with sugar...to feed the yeast."
They look at me. The Effing B says, "Some breads aren't made with sugar."
"Sure, the specially-designed dietetic breads. But I don't think you can expect any commercial bakery to exclude sugar."
She waits for the boy to make his decision. Then she turns halfway around, somewhat bitchily and says, "Baguettes aren't made with sugar."
"Hm? I'd check with your bakeries. If you're trying to avoid sugar because of allergies or other health issues, I wouldn't take the risk on bread you didn't make yourself."
Take that, bitch! Get out my shop!
She turns back to the sandwich artist and starts to order. The artist looks up at me and I stare back at her, my eyes bulging out of my head, nodding toward the hipster in front of me. I slowly mouth the word "RE-TARD," and we share a knowing smirk. Or she thought I was crazy, too, and was just trying to placate me. Whatever.
So after all this, I order my sandwich without requesting cheese on the bottom, meat on top of cheese, veggies on top of meat. I cringe as each veggie is added, making my sub look top-heavy and sloppy. Unfortunately, I've played the "better-customer" card, and I can't start freaking out about proper sandwich structure now.
But still, I don't know if I can ever go back there. I bent the rules once; they'll think I'm insane if I come back with my lofty sandwich expectations. I don't want to look like some Effing B (Fucking Bitch).
So there's that,
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