My Very Last Subway Sandwich

Never again.

I am a romantic optimist, so when I see a purty picture, in color y'know, of a juicy steak sandwich, I believe it's for real. It began to snow on 14th Street, my stomach was growling. I'd foolishly passed up some tasty smelling Cubano and Latino foods, but like the dumb-ass I am ('cause I never learn, that's why), I went in to Subway, believing the best would happen: maybe the boneless rib, or the one filled with lots of juicy pastrami, but instead I picked the grilled pepper steak, which looked better than any of the others. The surly she-bitch behind the counter flipped a paper container of something--looked like maybe it was meat at one time, slammed it over the roll of "special cheese and garlic bread" (turned out to be made of dust, crumbled the instant I picked it up), then into the oven it went, as though heat would ever resurrect that dead stuff into food. Hell, if you're known for being a sandwich joint, the very least thing you can do is be sure the bread is decent. This was the pitts; I ended up wearing more crumbs of that crap than I ate. I have to admit the meat, or what passed for, was tender.

My point is we have to stand up and reject out the rotten food we get when we pay for something entirely different than what they give us. I'm guessing this has been going on for so long we take it for granted, but if we continue to do so, we're only digging our own hole deeper.

Am I the only one who cares?