Trick-fucked is the term a couple of the guys back in BG coined. Not my hipster doofus friends, no, the other friends. The ones that tried to dress like they were in The Matrix but wound up looking like the Allentown Brothers. The ones that wore those creepy Marilyn Manson contact lenses on purpose. The ones where, to qualify as “the weird one” in the group, you had to wear a jester’s hat and that guy lost his virginity before you did. The ones where the “intellectual” of the group called you a bigot and a sheep running up to November 2016 and then blocked you on Facebook whole years after you forgot you were connected on Facebook. Those friends. The friends where you hear one of them moved to Boston and married a marine biologist and you sighed a heavy sigh of relief and you thought, “Thank fuck he got out,” and then you saw his brother on Facebook, guy pushing thirty, and he’s showing off his dental implants that make it look like he has fangs and you just… closed… your laptop and went the fuck outside. Those were the guys that coined the term trick-fucked, a term I rarely use because, let’s be adults about this, it sounds like a rape euphemism. It’s not. It means you got tricked so bad you got fucked.
Were you tricked? Yes.
Did you wind up fucked? Yes.
You got trick-fucked.
Just like I got trick-fucked today.
So I’m in the mood for an Italian sub and I Google “italian deli” and I get the standard answers and I see this joint called Buon Giorno. OK, I can fuck with this. Listing on Google Maps says seven point eight miles. Let’s click on this and…
Eleven miles? Hold on. Click back.
Seven point eight miles. Uh… Click and…
Eleven miles. OK, well show me on the map.
OK, listing says seven point eight miles, map says eleven. No biggie. This is in… Lilydale? Well, this is pleasant sounding. Lilydale. OK, how do I get there?
What?
No, I’ve been on that trail. You’ve got me doing some off-road shit and the trip is an hour and change by bike? I don’t know, man, I just posted a month ago that I’m over making forty five minute sandwich runs, why would I make an hour nine minute sandwich run? And that’s one way. Were talking almost two and a half hours round trip for an Italian sub. Isn’t there anywhere closer?
Hence Joe’s Market & Deli, up in Como. A lot closer, nobody has to go off road, I know the neighborhood, and it still matches my criteria of me never having been there before. Pictures show a bunch of burgers and burritos and shit on the menu but for once Yelp proved helpful and a guy wrote that he got their hot Italian sub every day. That is all I need. Get on the bike, head up to Como, pretty much following the path I took to get to work every day when I worked at UCare.
Pop in and there’s the menu board full of shit I don’t want and then there’s the menu board with what I’m looking for and they almost nabbed me at the “Philly” until I saw they used Swiss which, I’m looking around this place, I know what kind of Swiss they’re using:
Italian sausage, provolone (the most offensively flavorless thing Sysco manufactures), giardiniera, and red onions, $6.95.
OK [scratches ear] wait, so, is there a cold Italian? [looks around] No? Is there [looks on all the menu boards] I mean, I guess I could try this. At least it doesn’t have lettuce on it.
Quick aside, one time, Cody at the liquor store told me, “I saw a Mexican Squirt at Target.”
In response, I told him, “I saw a Mexican squirt on PornHub.”
Good night, everybody!
AAAhhh, still proud of myself for that one.
Anyway, while I’m waiting, the muzak is playing nineties Aerosmith and I’m not feeling it. At least yesterday at Lowry Hill Meats they were bumping Pixies playing “Where Is My Mind” and followed that with LCD Soundsystem’s “Daft Punk Is Playing At My House”. Hipstery? Yes. Dated? So very. More easily digestible than nineties Aerosmith? You betcha. When it comes to the Thunderdome between that doofy ass Daft Punk song and “Angel”, I’m picking the Daft Punk song every time.
This shit? This shit was gross.
Speaking of, how was my sandwich?
Well, let’s see. I know I’ve been a Negative Nancy Grace lately and my kneejerk reaction to this sandwich is I don’t like it but how can every sandwich I’ve eaten be bad or subpar? Something must be wrong with me. I must not be doing my job right. Because it can be something crafted with care like yesterday’s sandwich or something slapped together over a grill like my burger the day before and I’m just not into it.
What did I say about Cafe Limon? [goes back a few posts] OK, I liked it but I just kept shit real brief.
But knowing that I’ve been down on everything lately as I eat my sandwich, I force myself, “OK, asshole, get analytical. What’s going on here?”
OK, the Italian sausage, start there. Pro: You can sure taste the fennel. Con: They cut two links length wise and then arrange them perpendicular to the roll.
Cheese. Pro: Uh… pass. Con: You can’t fucking taste it because it’s fucking Sysco provolone.
Giardiniera. Pro: It’s not too spicy, the veggies are crisp, it’s evenly distributed. I have my suspicion that this is Marconi Mild. Con: It overwhelms all the other flavors on this sandwich.
Red onion. Pro: God chocked them full of folic acid and magnesium and that’s real good for your colon. Con: Couldn’t taste them.
Bread. Pro: Toasty crisp on the outside, airy and fluffy on the inside. Con: None.
You know the music that plays underneath that scene in A Christmas Story after Ralphie decodes the Little Orphan Annie code and he says, “A crummy commercial?” That was the music that accompanied my lunch. Because I didn’t investigate closer, I dove head first into a situation I knew nothing about, all I saw were the words “hot Italian” and I assumed it would be like an Italian but they would melt the cheese which I still think is not an unfair assumption and then I get to the place, I look at the menu and it turns out I got trick-fucked. By myself, by my assumptions, by that guy on Yelp. Who the fuck is that guy? Great, now I can’t find him. Oh, well.
Can I recommend this place?
Well, I have to go back to see what they do right because they’ve got some shitty reviews of varying quality but people who like them love them, swear by them, are over the moon for them so I have to go back and try something different.
Just like you can try something different with your very own copy of Batpussy: A Speculative Fiction available through Barnes & Noble for only $10.10. (Lighten up, I’ve sold only three copies. I need to pimp myself.) This beautiful austere paperback speculates lies, that’s right, just straight up lies about how the actual movie that actually exists, Batpussy was made.
You’ll meet draft dodgers, dishonorable discharges, abused women, abusive women, racists, so many racists, and they all fuck each other and do coke and speed together and there’s a tie-in to a nationwide car theft network, it’s really bonkers, I think you’ll really like it.
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/batpussy-charlie-pauken/1129374780?ean=9781538094839
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