A Sandwich Like No Other
By: Joe
Fucking Stunning Artwork By: Fatboy

HELLO MY WONDERFUL FRIENDS!!! This is Joe. I'm typing!!! I don't think anybody will pay me any mind, but I thought I would say that if anybody finds this story sooooo inspirational that they feel they'd like to ILLUSTRATE PICTURES FOR IT I would be like, "Yes! This is great!" and would put them throughout the document! Ooh! Seriously! Anybody can make as many pictures as they like of any kind of quality and I will probably put them up as long as I can tell what is going on in them a little bit. Look at the ones I put up already! The bar has been set! And if we were to play limbo, even Shaq would win no problem!!!

So, yeah, if more people send me stuff (likely), I will put up multiple versions! I don't even care what medium it's in! Hey! Anybody want to do a flash animation?! I don't mind recording a reading of the whole thing! Oh, how grand that would be! Anyway, you guys get back to me. I will not leave this spot until you cool cats have sent me a veritable smorgasbord of internet art! PROMISE.

OK READ THE THING. IT GON CHANGE YO LIFE.


There once was a sandwich that tasted so fine every man, woman, and child schemed: "It must be mine!"

The sandwich was forged in a mystical place of sacred wondernment unlike the human race had ever known of or would know of again. It was the Quizno's over there, that one on Route 10. But, oh, what a wise and old Quizno's it was, as though its toasting machine had been built up above. By up above I mean in upstate New York where the machine factories are run with aplomb and with torque.

So, anyway, yeah, there once was this boy whose life felt so empty and had in it no joy. He was sixteen, you see, so not at all yet a man and day in and day out felt he was stuck in a pen. In this small town with its one-horse, one-Quizno's ways, he couldn't bare to imagine spending many more days.

But the thing that he found that was really quite strange was his skill with a sandwich was borderline deranged. Like derangedly awesome, you get what I'm saying? In comparison his co-workers were almost just playing. For his meat was not sloppy, his tomatoes succinct, and the dressing just tasted even better I think. When this boy put those magic hands to work you would know there'd be lots of business that day at Route 10 Quizno's.

So one day he was practicing, honing his craft, when the manager informed him his pay would be halved.

"What the hell? Are you kidding? I'm the best worker here. When it comes to sandwichmaking, I'm like Richard Gere!" Said the boy for he was a big fan of Mr. Gere's work. I've never fully understood this, I think Gere is a jerk.

The manager insisted that his hands were tied, it wasn't his fault, he was just trying to abide by the decree put upon him by the men upstairs, meaning these guys who literally lived up there. It was a two-story building, but I'm only telling you one, because this one's getting long and I'm not having fun.

Just then the sandwich the boy had been making came out of the toaster for it was finished baking. The manager had turned and begun to go, but he suddenly whirled around because he had to know:

"What on earth sort of sandwich is that?! What'd you make?!?" For it left such a glorious smell in its wake.

"It is a sandwich of my own design. Perhaps we can add it to the official Quizno's line," said the boy, quite pleased for he knew he'd done well. The quality was evident purely from the smell.

The manager, wide-eyed and drooling declared:

"Yes yes, whatever, just give it, who cares!?"

The boy was not sure he liked this attitude. His creation was meant to be loved, not abused.

Just then down the door came, thrown off the hinges and in walked a chorus of tools, twats, and minges. (These sorts of people frequent Quizno's I'm afraid, and at that moment it was like a douchebag parade.)

They screamed and they stamped and they shouted and frothed:

"WHERE DAT SAMMICH AT?! GIMME!"

"Oh, what have I wrought!?" shouted the lad in anguish, then the manager said:

"Quick, give me the sandwich! Or they'll have your head!" The boy tossed over the sandwich as fast as he could. The manager jumped on the counter and stood. He pulled out a pistol and said "Back the fuck off!" And pointed the gun and held the sandwich aloft.

The crowd advanced like in a zombie movie so the manager fired a warning shot through the guy directly in the front of the crowd, but this didn't help and the people got loud. So the manager sprung over the tops of their heads and took to the stairs in his brand new Keds. The door shut behind him and locked quite tightly so the crowd turned on the boy and demanded too-rightly:

"MAKE US ANOTHER! MAKE IT RIGHT NOW!!"

"No! I can't, no, I won't, you stupid, fat sows!"

The boy doth protested because, quite frankly, that sandwich he'd made was the best and, hey, he felt it was about time for his break, so he kicked a bunch of the people right in their faces and went outside, but once there he began to wonder, if perhaps his manager had made a huge blunder. In locking himself upstairs he'd be doomed, so the boy did some karate shit and whoosh, bang, kazoom! He was on the roof and then dropped down from above to see his manager, or what had become of.

He sprang through the window, spry as can be and was shocked and appalled at what he did see. There were men upstairs, oh yes, that much was true, but they were all bedridden and smelled of poo-poo.

"What is this?!" cried the boy, "Willy Wonka or some shit?!" You know the part he was talking about, right, you get it?

His manager sat in the corner afeared, the sandwich clutched to his breast.

"Don't come near! I shan't give it up now, this sandwich so fine." He looked crazy as he spoke, "THIS SANDWICH IS MINE!"

"You'll answer me this! What's with these men upstairs? Do they know of the Quizno's, do they even care?"

"I'll tell you, it's fine, it don't even matter, I only cut your pay to make my pockets fatter! These old people just live here, I come up here sometimes and play keep away with their dentures and listen to them whine!"

"You're evil and greedy! Give that sandwich here! You don't deserve my creation so dear!" The boy then advanced, but stopped in his tracks for the manager had drawn his gun ready to attack.

"Wahahaha! I am laughing because what can you do?! The sandwich is mine and you're through, boy, you're through!"

He cocked the part of the gun that usually gets cocked because he was, as they say, ready to rock.

Then the manager screamed and the gun flew through the air, for an old person had bitten him, yes, right there on his leg with the dentures he'd not kept away in his haste.

"Wahaha! Oh my, I just love the taste of jerk in the morning," said the oldy with a grin. Then the door busted down and the buttheads came in, still searching for the sandwich they'd smelled from afar.

"Gimme sammich!" said a redneck, "I'ma put it in mah car!"

"Hurry boy!" shouted another old, and the boy did indeed. He wrenched the sandwich from the manager and said:

"You'll pay for your greed!"

Deftly bobbing and weaving, he flipped out the place. Then watched through the window with horror on his face. As the twat brigade descended upon his old boss and demolished the Quizno's, he realized the cost of making food with such spectacular power so he got in his Chevy and drove for an hour and a half to a place where nobody would look, the dirtiest corner of Long Island's where he took the sandwich and hid it and guarded it well and fought off the fatties drawn to it by smell.

And there he remained with his horrible gift, and his spirits he found he could do naught to lift.

For the irony of it was painful yet true:

Quizno's was not kosher and he was a Jew.


This website is © 2001-2008 Listen To Me. All pictures, sounds and other stuff which doesn't belong to us is © its respective owner(s). Everything else is a free-for-all. Steal anything we created (as if you'd ever want to) and we'll...well, we probably won't be motivated to do anything. But you never know. And yes, that is Colonel Sanders throwing a punch at this copyright notice. SMACK