For the second weekend in a row I spent my days fixing, or attempting to fix shit. Mostly succeeded except that damn air bag light in my car. In addition to being well known as a destroyer of chairs, I’ve also had quite the track record of breaking heads off bolts. That tradition continued today as I went to replace a crash sensor in the Corolla. Worked on that summa bitch for the next few hours but have to concede that what started as a Barnhardt project will be ending a Mester one for he has the tools and I, I just have a terrific neck and back ache. And so I drink.
For dinner I thought I’d grab myself a sub from the way of Subs. Pulled into the parking lot just after a silver car. Popped out of my seat and into Subway ahead of them. Small victory. At the counter I made the call – sub of the day. Footlong Subway Club. Whole wheat bread. Toast it. The whitest of cheeses. Cue a bad feeling about things to come, but no idea why. Ordered up all the toppings with a final request for salt and pepper and honey mustard to top it off. Looked away for a fraction of a second, then back, just in time to see the lovely Subway chick quite literally hosing down the sub with sub sauce. I didn’t order sub sauce. I was hungry though so I didn’t call her on it. There was no fixing the situation and I wasn’t about to go through the line again. How bad can it be? It was unquestionably the worst sub of my life. Like a tube sock full of old vegetables and clearance cold cuts dipped in snot. And so I drink.
Oh and also, it’s not Sunday so the sub of the day is not the Subway Club, which means I paid full price for that tube sock. And so I… ah screw it. I’m going to bed.