OK, Chad, this is your big day. The corporate picnic. These white-collar working stiffs are looking for a way to forget about their jobs for a little while, and they’ve found you. No pressure, Chad, no pressure. You were designed for this. Literally. Your sole purpose on this planet is to be eaten, and today you shall be eaten. Everyone should be so lucky, to have such fulfillment in their lives.
What are you so nervous about, anyway? They’re gonna love you. Who wouldn’t love 8 feet of fresh-baked whole-grain dough, cut in half and lovingly layered with pepperoni, Genoa salami, ham, and baby Swiss cheese? Not to mention the toppings: shredded romaine lettuce, sliced heirloom tomatoes, chopped red onions (not even just white onions—red onions, for chrissakes), pickles, and black olives. You know how many sandwiches are lucky enough to have black olives at all, let alone enough to cover 8 feet? Not many, Chad. You’re one of the few. You should be proud.
Seriously, take a look at yourself. You’re 8 feet of organically grown gourmet goodness. Yao Ming is not as tall as you are long, and that’s saying something, because Yao Ming is gigantic. If there were an 8-foot snake in the room, everyone would scream and run for cover. Unless they were herpetologists. You know what, though, Chad? You’re not a snake, and they’re not herpetologists. You’re an 8-foot sandwich, and they are some four dozen number crunchers, each looking to get a little bit of some free sandwich. You’re gonna knock ’em dead, kid.
What’s this? Somebody’s opening the box. It’s go time. Go get ‘em, Chad! Show those corporate jerks what you’re made of: fresh-baked whole-grain dough, Genoa salami, pepperoni, ham, Swiss cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, red onions, pickles, black olives, mayonnaise, that weird sub-dressing oil/vinegar combo, and spicy brown Boar’s Head brand deli mustard! You’re gonna knock ’em dead.
Four feet left … 4 whole feet … How could this have happened? How was I so naive as to think this fate wouldn’t befall me, as it has befallen so many sandwiches that came before me? Stupid Chad … stupid, arrogant Chad … Look at where your hubris has brought you: wrapped in tinfoil sitting in the break-room refrigerator next to the secretary’s month-old cream cheese and the temp’s brown-bag lunch. You see that? You are free, and even the temp, who is clearly broke, will not eat you, opting instead for a peanut-butter sandwich and a mealy apple in a crumpled brown bag. Wait—what’s that? Oh—the door is opening! Who can it be? Rodney! Sweet, fat Rodney from accounting! Eat me! Please, Rodney … I’m begging you … Don’t close that door! Don’t you need something for that Sprite to wash down? Please … And he’s gone.
Who are you kidding, Chad? Nobody will eat you now. You’ll sit here and slowly rot, until people sneer at the sight of you and the temp finally throws you out, unceremoniously. Out of sight, out of mind. You had a shot at everlasting glory, and you botched it all, Chad, you botched it all … Might as well try to preserve a bit of dignity and try not to stink up the joint.