A Tense Conversation With a Sandwich

Hello there Mr. Sandwich,

I am going to eat you. Yes, you heard me. By the end of mealtime, you will be gone. I'm sorry, but this is the way it has to be. You are a ham sandwich, and I am going to eat you.

Don't try and get out of it, Mr. Sandwich. It's not going to happen. You're a sandwich, and I'm looking to eat a sandwich. This situation, while unfortunate for you, is quite a stroke of luck for me.

Granted, you are a crappy sandwich, but I'll eat a crappy sandwich once in a while, when a quality sandwich can't be found. Perhaps you were once a well-prepared and tasty sandwich, one that some happy-go-lucky person bought from a fine deli. But you're not anymore. You have been abused and neglected, Mr. Sandwich, and I'm going to put you out of your misery.

Just think, Mr. Sandwich: if I hadn't found you lying there on the sidewalk outside my apartment building, you could have met an even worse fate. Someone could have stepped on you, or thrown you at an old lady. You wouldn't hit an old lady in the face, would you Mr. Sandwich? Worst of all, someone could have thrown you away. Wouldn't that have been terrible? You'd end up old, crusty, and stale. You'd be the sandwich version of Bob Hope.

And nobody likes Bob Hope. Not even my grandma.

Don't start to get ideas, Mr. Sandwich. Just because I'm planning to eat you doesn't mean you'll be getting any fancy treatment. I won't be dressing you up with lettuce or tomatoes. The only thing I'll be adding is mayonnaise, to get rid of your stinky smell.

Don't think the stinky smell is going to turn my stomach, though. I've eaten stinkier things than you, Mr. Sandwich. You are certainly not the stinkiest sandwich I've found on the ground. Not by far.

Are you sad, Mr. Sandwich? Are you upset that I'm going to eat you? Don't give me that look, Mr. Sandwich. Nothing you do is going to change my mind. You can cry until your bread is soggy, but I will still eat you. Then I will poo you out in my bathroom. But that's another story.

So what are you going to do, just sit there? Do you not wish to at least attempt to entertain and impress me, in hopes of being set free? Do you not fancy having a chance to save your own life? If you were to dance a short Irish jig or win at solitaire without cheating, I might very well deem you to good a sandwich to be eaten.

My goodness. You don't seem to care much for your own life, Mr. Sandwich. Perhaps you are a suicidal sandwich. Maybe your deep depression and/or bi-polar disorder are the reason why you've given up. These disorders can be treated, Mr. Sandwich, but probably not in time, before I eat you.

Oh, I see. You're not sad or depressed. You're just stubborn. You're going to sit there and go out without even a complaint, like some sort of hero. Well fine, Mr. Sandwich. Have it your way. I refuse to put up with your tomfoolery any longer. You are going to be bit into. You are going to be chewed. You are going to be washed down with a good bottle of hard-nosed sarsaparilla.

Yes indeed, Mr. Sandwich. I am going to eat you.