I'm not sure Mr Santana knows what a wrap is and I'm OK with that.
I went on my usual "I don't know where the fuck I want to go" ride today, usual in that Minneapolis has butchered the bike trails this summer so that you get ten miles into the good times and all of a sudden the asphalt ends and naked earth is exposed in the name of some unneeded improvement that should be done in a matter of days but takes months because I'm pretty sure this is how the Frey administration is dealing with bike-dependent leftists. Liberals can have their parks but the lefties? The anarchos, the antifas, the commies, the pinkos, the syndicalists, the unionists, the people that depend on bicycle transportation? Nope, all those routes have been conveniently fuck you'd by a boy king still embarrassed that a BLM rally shamed him into going back into his apartment.
This is season seven (The Sevening), bitches, I have no reason to hold anything back because I'm not coming back for a season eight.
ANYhoo, today's strategy was to color inside the lines and find a bike lane and stick in it, as much as I could, because the bike lanes are all fucked up, too. By the time I get to third and Washington, I realize I'd forgotten to put on sunscreen and I thought, "Well, this'll be a short run, won't it?"
I found myself on my old commute to UCare - "UCare, healthcare that starts with denying you your oxygen!" - and I roll up on Mr Santana, a place I'd passed a bajillion times but never gone in because of time reasons and, you know? I don't like making my bike rides about going somewhere to eat anymore. I gained weight doing this blog. Like the shit wasn't healthy. I got up to two hundred thirty pounds. I have hypertension and tachycardia already, so I kind of have to knock this off. Hell, I've already lost twenty five pounds and all I had to do was not write Sandwich Bully anymore. But I still have to get through this last season as a commitment to myself and others so today was the day I finally rolled into Mr Santana and took a look at what they had going on.
Plenty of gyros and burgers and falafels but you know when I see anything called a Philly, that's where my money is going. So I ask the one dude working there if the grill was open, he said yes, and I ordered the $8.99 Philly wrap.
Not a typo, not even my choice, it's listed as a Philly wrap. If that's how I'm getting it, I guess that's how I'm getting it. As a wrap. Like a bitch.
He asks me if I want the jalapeño sauce and I decline. I have IBS - another reason to quit Sandwich Bully - so I spell jalapeño without the tilde over the N. Jalapeno. Get it? Like "no" instead of "-nyo"? Get it? Because it's like I'm saying "no" to jalapeños but I'm using the word jalapeño to say no, right? Get it?
Alright, fine.
So I watch a bit of 300 while I wait; it's on the History Channel while I'm in there. And I'm on this scene where I don't who this lady is but she's talking to either Lance Henriksen or Stephen McHattie and I want to say it's Stephen McHattie because (I have this assumption that) he comes cheaper than Henriksen but then this movie had a huge budget, there's no reason for this to not be Henriksen.
I used to be really good at Instagram.
And I know I could just IMDb it right there but... I... don't. I don't actually care that much to IMDb whether it was Lance Henriksen or Stephen McHattie who was in 300. I mean, I'm talking about it to you right now, do you care? Hardly.
So I see the dude in the reflection of the TV and I hear the rip of a sheet of foil and I know it's time to move back to the pick up counter. He comes over and hands me the sandwich in a plastic THANK YOU bag - cue disappointed sigh - and tells me to enjoy and I thank him and tell him to have a good day and he says you as well and I feel bad because he never gave me the merchant copy to put a tip down and I didn't see a tip jar.
I took my wrap and biked down the scant few blocks to the river and staked a spot on a bench, pulled out the wrap, unwrapped the foil and wax paper and it... was... a sandwich. A greazy sandwich. Meat and cheese and peppers and onions in a fucking roll. Like a proper cheesesteak. And the bastard was big. Like angeringly big. I'm trying to have salmon and broccoli for dinner tonight because it's delicious and heart healthy and you just gave me a knuckle-to-elbow beef and cheese festival.
But...
But...
I've been holding out so long...
I've been sleeping all alone...
Ugh.
What could I do!? What could I fucking do!? Not eat it!? Are you nucking futs!?!? This was an $8.99 cheesesteak! This was $9.71 after tax! You think I'm just going to not eat it!? Were you born stupid? It's a matter of financial ethics that I... Those little green peppers... Those sweet sweet onions... That melty mouth burning cheese... It's been so long. So so long.
I mean, yeah, sure, Sunny's Deli like six weeks ago. Are you looking at this fucking picture??
So, knowing that I am an awful person and Sally Struthers was going to have some things to say to me - that's an eighties reference, kids - I did the unthinkable. The inexcusable.
I ate this bitch like I was eating pussy on my last death row conjugal visit.
Oh, heavenly rapture! Oh, sweet providence!
I'm reminded of an old I'm Age from an eighties Heavy Metal where the young woman says to her cat, "When I'm dead, I won't know any cats." Then, in the next panel, she says, "Forever's a long time to not know any cats." Then in the last panel, she says to the cat, "Good to know you, cat."
I felt this way about this cheesesteak.
Sure, I'm trying to fix up my life so I live a lot more of it but I'll never live longer than I'll be dead and I have a very short time to enjoy cheesesteaks and I have to tell you, very plainly, as your friend - I should hope we're friends, some of us have known each other since the beginning of this thing, some of us not so long but I should hope you, my reader, and me, your guide, are friends. I would like to think of us that way and I would like to think that, as your friend, I can tell you that you should go give Mr Santana your money because this cheesesteak, while it won't bend your mind, will hit all the right pleasure receptors in your brain. The bread is soft and not chewy. The meat is shaved and seasoned with the basic salt and pepper combo that meat requires. The cheese is molten and gooey - I suspect there were two cheeses used for the saucy and stretchy effects and, come on, saucy and stretchy!? There's some goddamned artistry there. And the perfectly - you heard me, I said, "perfectly," asshole -
Perfectly sautéed diced green bells and onions? Oh, my god! Can you stop making me cum so hard? The underside of my dicktip is very sensitive and it's starting to hurt with you flicking your tongue against it like that.
I haven't felt inspired like this in a minute and I know you've seen the previous seventh season entries. So if I'm excited, maybe you should get a little excited and go drop ten dollars on a cheesesteak.
And then... don't... do that... again because that's... that-that's kind of a bit much for a sandwich.
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