He ate my sandwich! Bob ate my wonderful sandwich!
My turkey, cheese, bacon, tomato, lettuce on rye sandwich! How could Bob do such a thing? Does he not know how many hours I spent making my sandwich?
Well, maybe not hours but minutes. Several glorious minutes!
I even drove all the way across town to get the good turkey from the good deli. Doesn’t Bob know this?
How could you, Bob! How could you eat my sandwich! Why did you eat it?
Do you get some kind of sick satisfaction from eating other peoples’ sandwiches? Huh!! Do you?
I recall a time when you wanted to make a sandwich of your own but did not have any bread. You asked to borrow a few slices of bread and I was agreeable. In addition, I also gave you $5 so that you may purchase a loaf of your choosing.
That was not too long ago. Did you purchase your own loaf? No! You spent that $5 on beer. And when you got back home you didn’t even offer me a beer!
Oh how I loathe you, Bob!
It is no wonder you are a solitary man. But I digress.
Why the hell did you eat my sandwich? Was there something about it that called out to you? Hmmm?
Did the sandwich itself speak to you? Did it speak to you in French or Spanish?
If you are having conversations with talking sandwiches regularly then perhaps you should see a psychiatrist.
But even that is no excuse for eating my lovely sandwich!
Why! Why did you eat it?
I’ve been nothing but kind to you these past few months. I have no qualms with our living arrangement.
And I only slept with your wife once! Only once!
Why did you eat my sandwich?
All words written by Ryan A. Loera