Gorgias

My latest sandwich, jesus crap dammit, it is the best. Here. Take a fresh bun of bread, some nice shit you can find in a real bakery. Don’t be cheap, ’cause it will taste like shit. Slice it in two parts and put them on a plate, like real nice. Fuck yes, this is going to be great. Slice your tomato like it’s nobody’s business, and don’t keep those parts too big because they’ll fall off when you’re eating and there’s fucking tomato shit on your pants so be careful and cut ’em up well. Mix some arugula, no cheap stuff, with iceberg salad and add some salt and pepper while you cram it on top of the buns. Don’t overdo it, it’s gonna taste terrible, so don’t overdo it. Did you already slice up the mozzarella? This is the moment, dude, shiiiiit. Slice it in tiny bits and spread them over the arugula mixture crap and don’t make it too wet because your bread will be all soggy which completely sucks and is like the hallmark of bad sandwich land and you just want a real nice sandwich am I right? Just layer the tomato bits on top of that and add some red onion slices and tiny pieces of like a nice pickle to it and then probably get like a fork and knife, because this bitch will eat like shit with your hands, so cut it and eat it like a fucking human being and not a dog. You’re not a dog if you can prepare a damn sandwich, I always say, so eat it like not a dog.

I’m making faces while on the telephone, idly rearranging the fruit in my fruit bowl. This person, she will not stop talking, and I am not interested in what she’s offering me, but the primo muchas best way to fuck up this conversation and end it spectacularly has not yet hit me. The whole “I’m driving into a tunnel” angle is already in the shitter, considering the technological advances of mobile phones and transmission shit and whatnot, and but also I told her “sure” when she asked me if I was at home — which is a weird question for a telephone marketing person but necessitated by the level at which I was playing my obnoxious Devo record — and so I need to find a way to completely fuck up this conversation.

I can’t find any stupidly funny sound effects on my computer, except for the Wilhelm scream, but that wouldn’t really come across as much as, uh, say, an explosion or an elephant in musth. I do not have a fully-equipped foley set in a back room. Faking someone at the door is as old as grandmother’s grandmother, and therefore Not Sufficiently Cool. There must be a way, I tell myself, pounding myself on the head like Winnie the Pooh does, muttering to himself, “think think think!”, and I look at the fruit bowl. I start with an apple and slowly but clearly audibly work my way through a week of fruit, sometimes flushing it with a beer I loudly open. She hangs up at the third beer, disgusted, because I’m trying to spit out the nasty bits of an old mango. I’ll probably be tied to the toilet for six straight days, but she won’t be calling me then.