I would first like to apologize for the utter and complete lack of content as of late on wasted-off-butter. I have intended for some time, to update, but have simply been far too busy maintaining the Stephanie Tanner Project. Truth be told, I am still quite busy, but a matter of great importance has brought me here to my computer this evening.

My friends, it has happened for a third time. I was raped, in a culinary fashion.

Now, for those of you who are newcomers to this website, you might want to take a chunk of time - say, 20 minutes, and examine my previous two culinary rapings. The first, which I am still recovering from, took place at a local McDonalds. The second, which left the entire left side of my body in a state of paralysis, took place at Taco Bell. Ever since these previous rapings, I have ceased dining at these establishments, as well as most other fast food establishments. I have made only one exception: Subway.

Earlier today, I was brutally and forceably raped, intestinally. I entered the Subway sandwich shop on Harlem Ave., not even a mile from my house, with high hopes. On the ride there, my mind was filled with happy cold-cut related thoughts. Pieces of ham and cheese danced through an open field, arm in arm. An italian BMT sandwich rushed home to his family, to inform them of his recent admission into Dartmouth... His family was overjoyed - The BMT's father was a homely meatball sub, his mother a coldcut trio. The BMT was going to be the first sandwich in his family to attend a school - after all, the family didn't have large amounts of money like the well-to-do Subway "Select" Sweet Onion Teryaki's on the other side of town (damn asian people.)

Little did I know, that in a mere 10 minutes, my mind would instead be filled with much darker thoughts - thoughts of razor sharp slices of cheese, cutting my flesh into little pieces. Thoughts of the sandwich man taking those little dough ball shaped pieces of flesh, and inserting me into the bread maker, and making me into delicious (although fatty) loaves of parmesan oregano.

I would first like to voice my displeasure with the quality of customer service at this Subway location. I visit it once or twice a week, and each time there is a different problem. Last week, the "sandwich artist," whos is always indian and speaks almost no english, informed me that he could not give me change for a 10 dollar bill - my total was $6.50. He asked me to produce "something smaller." Tell me, friends, what is smaller than a 10 dollar bill, yet still covers this total - a five dollar bill? I think not. I was tempted to give him something much bigger, like my penis, but I decided instead to go accross the street to a local gasoline station and ask for change there.

Another time, I was charged upwards of $1.50 for extra toppings - who'd have known that an extra serving of lettuce and pickle could cost a man so much. And, without fail, there are communication problems. Here is an example of a conversation that I might have with the (always Indian) sandwich artist.

me: "Hi, I'd like a Cold Cut trio on white. Cheese, Lettuce, tomato, pickle & onion, no mayo or mustard, with oil and vinegar please."
vishnu: "What kind of bread?"
me: "White."
vishnu: "Cheese on sandwich?"
"Yes."
"Mayo/Mustard?"
"No."

(at this point Vishnu will reach for the mayo mustard bottles, and commence putting mayo/mustard on my sub.)

"No. No mayo or mustard."

(continues putting mayo/mustard on sub.)

You get the idea. This is followed by me having to repeat every individual ingredient that I covered in my first sentence. Yet the sandwich is usually flavorful, and does the job of filling the void in my estomago. This time, however, things were horribly different.

I asked for my usual, which I've already covered (examine the Cold Cut Trio ingredients in the previous paragraph.) One thing about Subway that is unique is that you are able to view your food as it is assembled, which serves both to wet your appetite and ensure order accuracy. But it is a double-edged sword, my friends. On this visit, although I noticed nothing out of the ordinary, I now reflect on that viewing as a viewing of my own rape. I actually viewed the assembly of the horror missle that was about to be fired at supersonic speed into my digestive tract.

The cold cut trio was prepared for me - I noticed nothing abnormal upon initial assembly, aside from it's rather small size, which can be attributed to the incredibly cheap nature of the store owner himself.

Then, the first truly critical moment in the sandwich delivery - the cut. I noticed, while the artist was slicing my sub in half, that instead of a straightforward 50/50 cut technique, he instead accidentally cut the sandwich in more of a 70/30 fashion. This upset me - so much, in fact, that I couldn't even find a voice inside me to object with. I simply stood there, mouth agape, while my sandwich was brutally sliced to death, then wrapped in a mummylike fashion and thrown into it's gold-plated coffin, with some napkins.

I seated myself at a table, which had been freshly wiped down for me, and removed the sandwich from its bag. Immediately, I knew something was wrong. My hand was smeared with a disgusting amount of oil and vinegar. I knew what I was experiencing - I'd read about it -

THE OIL PROPHECY

In August of 1997, Sam Smith and I found ourselves in the Tomultec region of Mexico, hiking along an old tribal highway. It was a unbelievably hot - some 110 degrees.. I stepped away for a moment, to take a drink from a putrid, warm stream that ran alongside the road. While by the stream, I heard Sams cries. I rushed back immediately, and what he showed me remains locked in my mind for all times... Sam had brushed away some dirt and dust from a rock, and in the rock was etched this (Sam scribbled through a piece of parchment that he happened to be carrying with him and took this copy:)



Underneath the drawing, an ancient scripture told us of a phrophecy. Immediately after reading this prophecy, Sam Smith collapsed and died.

The prophecy states that a day will come, soon, where the hand of a good man is touched by an excessive oil/vinegar mix - and that that hand will soon sprout a large, fruit bearing tree - the fruits of that tree, soon thereafter, will transform themselves into several deities - one of justice, one of love, and another of evil.

The tree has still not commenced sprouting, but I will continue to wait in fear.

I placed the still wrapped sandwich on my tray, and pulled the edge of the wrapper to unleash it, much like a soldier pulling the pin on an unknowingly defective grenade. I could not believe the horror that I had just exposed - so traumatized am I, that I will, instead of continuing this story, simply offer a list of the problems I experienced:

1) OIL SATURATION OF BREAD/ENDS OF BREAD BEING DISGUSTINGLY HARD:The aforementioned oil surplus only got worse when I picked up half - no, not half, as I've covered the sandwich artist sliced it 70/30... So when I picked up the 30% chunk of the sub, I realized that the bread was nary more than a pain sponge. The river of oil and vinegar that had doused my hand had originated from the pain sponge - but only after it had been COMPLETELY SATURATED. This should give you a good idea of how much oil/vinegar was present in the bread. The bread, also, had hardened to the point of disgust, at the ends. When bitten into, the bread would break into smaller, equally hard pieces - I felt like I was eating a loaf which had been thrown in a cell, occasionally been given some water, or crumbs, and neglected for seven or eight days. Then, this happened:

2) HAM SLIME. I REFUSE TO TURN THE CAPS LOCK KEY OFF FOR THIS. ANYONE WHO HAS A MODERATE AMOUNT OF EXPERIENCE EATING AT SUBWAY KNOWS OF THE HAM SLIME. IT IS A PHENOMENON OFTEN SPOKEN OF, BUT RARELY EXPERIENCED. ON MY FIRST BITE INTO THE TRIO, I SEVERED OFF A PIECE OF HAM THAT HAD THE TEXTURE OF A FUCKING SALAMANDER. I don't know exactly how this ham slime forms, but this was far beyond a thin layer of it - the slime had infested the entire cold cut - it almost caused vomit. Not to mention, there was a thick, outer layer of fat surrounding each slice - never have I tasted something so rubbery.

But, of course, I was about to experience the climax of my rape.


3) THE COMPLETE AND TOTAL UNRAVELING: For some reason, despite the oil problems, the bread problems, the slicing problems, and the problems with the sandwich artist that I'd been assigned, I decided to press on. I abandoned the smaller piece, due to the bread hardening issue, and decided to give the larger piece a try.

I raised it to my mouth, ready for whatever the sandwich gods felt inclined to deliver to me - then, it happened.

The complete and total unraveling.

The whole process took perhaps 2 or 3 seconds, but I felt as if it occured over a period of many years - I noticed the leading edge of the sub had started to tear - the oversaturation of oil had reduced its strength, which had previously been ox-like, to that of a malnourished pakistani child. Within mere milliseconds, which, as covered, felt like hours and hours, the tear started to widen. Lettuce, onion, tomato, began showering down, first at a drizzle-like pace but steadily increasing to hurricaine like magnitude. Vegetables began swirling around the establishment in a tunnel cloud of green fury. Next, the cold cuts themselves began falling from the sandwich. At first, I considered trying to save them from such a brutal and violent descent, but I instead chose to simply scream and hide under an adjacent table.

This agonizing and hysterical shower of meat was as loud as a freight train, and watching it fall was equally as insufferable as waiting at a train crossing while said freight train cruises by at an incredibly terrible pace. After the shower, I carfeully removed myself from beneath the table, and looked around. Very little was left of the restaurant - The sandwich artist's faint cries could barely be heard from beneath the potato chip rack, which had tragically fallen down upon him. There were ingredients scattered everywhere... It was horrible... I never want to think of it again. I held Vishnu (the sandwich artist) in my arms until he breathed his last breath.......

Comrades, let us hope that this never happens again. But I fear it will someday, most likely when I have writers block and can't think of anything else to put on this website. Good day to you.