Subway, Subway, Subway… if this was real, verbal conversation, and not a blog, you would’ve heard me muttering the word “Subway” similar to the way Officer Michaels, or Seth Rogen, conflictingly uttered “McLovin” in Superbad. Yes, we’ve all seen it, so say it out loud: Ah, McLovin, McLovin, McLovin. Now that the proverbial table has been set and the mood is right, let me tell you why a visit to Subway left me shaking my head, grabbing my stomach, and debating whether or not anorexia could actually change my life for the better.
Earlier today I went into a Subway food chain to pick up a delicious, freshly baked, 12incher. I used to stop in at Subway pretty often, but lately, I just haven’t been able to bring myself to go in. I’m not quite sure if it’s the disgusting smell that is left on my clothes after I leave, or the fact that during my three semesters at Post all I ate was Subway, but I’ve kind of parted ways with Jared’s favorite sandwich shop. When I was at Post, no joke, as I’m sure you can all relate, Subway became my methadone clinic; the subs, my meth.
Normally I would enjoy these abnormally cheap, $5 foot longs in the company of others. I didn’t discriminate either; whether it was a prospective fuck buddy, best friend, family member, or some random kid that didn’t get the hint that I was only boys with him during the one hour and fifteen minute Media Studies class, I used to get Subway all the time with people. Engrossed in meaningless conversations, I never really paid attention to what was going down in front of my eyes. Before I go any further, I have to warn you: if you enjoy Subway, please do not read on…
As I placed my order with the dark skinned, unibrowed, I’m-doing-you-a-favor-by-making-this-sub sandwich technician, I looked around. Since I was by myself, conversation was non-existent, most likely because this man understood about as much English as my seventy pound, thirteen month old Golden Doodle. Actually, this is an unfair comparison; the Golden Doodle only understands the basics. This man understood about as much English as my twenty-two pound, six year old Cockapoo. She’s a little older, more distinguished… it wasn’t a big deal though; I actually prefer not befriending random people. Why? Because the gas station attendant near my house felt our “fill it up regular” relationship was a strong enough bond to invite me on a trip to Turkey with him. I declined. True story.
Since these shoebox sandwich boutiques have no scenery whatsoever, I shifted my attention solely on this gentleman. I couldn’t help but notice he was not wearing a hairnet, but that’s not too big of a deal right? Frankly, it is a huge deal, but after seeing what I am about to type right now, the hairnet is not something to focus much attention on.
Had I not seen his face, only looking at him from the neck down, I would think Attar, from Planet of The Apes, came straight from theaters, skipping DVD, and into my Subway. For those of you not familiar with this Hollywood bust, he is the large gorilla played by Michael Clarke Duncan. This man, who is representing Subway, had not fully evolved. I swear to you, the abnormal amount of hair on his arms could’ve made a wig for not only myself, but my older brother as well. That is, if we were trying to be a black haired Rapunzel for Halloween. What the fuck?
Grossed out beyond belief, I was no longer able to watch him make my sandwich. Once again, I looked around at the monotonous scenery of Subway. All of a sudden, right at that moment, everything made sense; I understood why the place is called Subway…the people making our sandwiches were pulled straight out of a fucking subway and thrown into a green polo. Interrupted by the sounds of a foot long sub, doused in hair, being wrapped up, I stared at this Cro-Magnon once more. He took his clear gloves off and rang me up. I paid and walked out. That will be the last time I ever enter a Subway.
My beef… There is probably a 99.98996% chance that this man’s arm hair fell off of his arm and into my sub. That is fucking man on man, dick-in-mouth repulsive. Subway needs to not only introduce their employees to hairnets, but also to full arm gloves, the ones that prevent arm hairs from falling into sandwiches. Next, the whole make-this-sandwich-in-front-of-you thing is stupid. Seriously, if I wanted to see who the fuck was making the product I am purchasing, I would call up a synthetic vagina making company. Alright, that might have been a little harsh. I would go to a Benihana.
I don’t see people bum rushing the back area of a McDonalds, KFC, Burger King, or any other fast food place. Every deli I have ever entered, the sandwiches were made in the back, or so far behind the counter we couldn’t see. So what makes Subway run its stores like this? I don’t know, but fuck you Subway, absolutely horrible idea. I now understand why all of your franchises are going under.