Sandwich of the Devil!
March 14, 2009
A little bit back I had expanded upon my arrival here in Dayton, and just how fucked up it was. And I don't just mean myself, you know, because I think I made it pretty obvious how fucked up I was upon my arrival here. Four solid days of hogod throwing up and very liquid expellation and whatnot, yeah yeah, you get the picture. I'm pretty sure I painted that up for you right pretty and now you can't unsee it.
Go me!
On day three of my horrible sick though, and I think it was Sunday, I was told 'fuck it, you have to fucking eat something', or words to that effect, as I hadn't since my arrival. I mean, knowing - knowing - that everything you eat is going to come right back out in a slightly reconfigured state only moments later, you tend to not want to go through the trouble. Well maybe you do, but I really dislike puking.
I don't buy this 'you'll feel better for it' cockmongery. No sir, and if you ascribe to that, you're fucking wrong. There's few things I dislike more than throwing up, because my body likes to make a goddamn production out of it. It's like biological drama, in that my body will warn me about oh, an hour in advance typically, that I'm going to erupt like a fuckin' geyser with food in various states of digestion as my 'lava'.
Normally, at least. The eruption fo Mt. St. Denny on the interstate here was an aberration, in that there was no warning, but typically I'll feel it coming, and then the dread will take over, and then I'll just be moping and laying down in front of a toilet for the duration wanting to just fucking end and it won't and the dread turns into panic and I get all worked up and then hofuck BLAERGH.
And sure enough, I do not feel better. I feel worse, and though yes I know it's one of those things your body does because it hates you absolutely has to, but afterwards I'm wrecked for hours. It's not like I just walk it off and have another beer, MISTER ACERS. No no no, I am wrecked and unhappy and at that point what the fuck do you do? Oh yeah, lay down and see if you're gonna fucking puke again. Bleh.
But you ask, 'So what's your point?', I suppose?
Good question. See, on day three I was taken to Panera Bread ™ and told to fucking eat something. Not really being big on 'soup' at this time, I said hokay, and got me a sandwich. Now, it had been about three days at this point since I had last eaten, so my brain was working in weird places, so the first thing I noticed was the logo of the place that was all over their placemats. There's a 666 in them bread grooves!
Now, me and a friend used to joke about the place being PANTERA bread, and he would go on with some sort of Pantera-inspired logo-song-phrase-thing that he'd do which was generally amusing, but I never saw the devil's number in their logo until that point. Which is awesome, 'cause it made me just like the place more. And I wasn't the only one that saw it either; we were being talked up by Random People at the place, and they saw it too.
If you want to see what I'm talking about, check Photo Number Two there. I took a photo of it on their door as we left recently (we actually went again last Friday, and while I attempted another round of photos on the place mats, they had since changed them to not feature their logo at all. At all. Which made me wonder if our little discovery got around, 'cause that's odd for a restaurant to not have their logo on their wrappers.)
So you can see me reflected in the door in all my nuclear orange splendor. Am I not lovely? Isn't it great that I know I'll never be ran over by accident, what with my goddamn glow in the dark attire? Black and eye-piercing orange, that's the way to do it... the contrast gets that much bigger when put against dark black clothes. So yeah, Panera Bread are apparently operated by Devil-humping fiends.
But jebus tits, they make a great sammich.