Thursday, August 12, 2010

The one where...

I just ate the World's Worst Sandwich.

There's a lot of hyperbole out there these days. There's even hyperbole of hyperbole. But you have to believe me when I tell you this was, without a doubt, with no exaggeration, hand to God, the World's Worst Sandwich.

Not only is this the only sandwich they serve in Hell's cafeteria, you have to share this sandwich with Satan, who eats this sandwich with his mouth open for all of eternity.

The remains of the World's Worst Sandwich.

I stood in a long line to order the World's Worst Sandwich. I waited among weary travelers, and you could just TELL no one in the group was entirely jazzed about the sandwich selection. But here we were.

I scanned the board of options. It was one of those places where it lists the calorie count next to each choice.

"How helpful," I thought. Thinking back, I had a fairly large lunch where I had an absolutely delightful blackened salmon sandwich. Clearly, I was tempting fate, mocking the sandwich Gods by attempting to have two delicious sandwiches in one day.

I chose a sandwich with 400 some odd calories. This sandwich will allow me to be conscious of my figure, I said to myself. Then I would wash down with a bucket sized coke.

I was immediately filled with regret when I ordered the World's Worst Sandwich. It was a moment that I will no doubt replay in my mind over and over. As I swiped my debit card -- paying more than $9 for the World's Worst Sandwich by the way -- my stomach immediately curdled. I had no desire to eat this sandwich. It was too late though. The events that would deliver me the World's Worst Sandwich were already in motion.

I went to fill up my coke and then wandered back to the sandwich station. An open glass case allowed me to watch as the World's Worst Sandwich was created. I scanned the ingredient buffet, wondering exactly which components were ear-marked for my sandwich. I located them, and I wretched.

Let me tell you something, blog readers, roasted vegetables should never be applied to a sandwich via an ice cream scoop.

I watched the counter boy, the little demon, wipe the sandwich cutting knife across his apron before he sliced the World's Worst Sandwich. I was very appreciative of how conscious he was: whatever trace of tomato juice he wiped off was obviously an upgrade to the rat feces it looked like he washed his apron in.

My number was called. I went to collect the World's Worst Sandwich. But there was a twist.

What's this? A bag of potato chips accompanies the World's Worst Sandwich! Things are looking up!

I was instantly psyched by this positive development in my dinner, but as the bag made the transfer into my hands, I was swiftly crushed: It was the smallest bag of potato chips I've ever seen in my LIFE.

On the back of the potato chip bag it says, "All the flavor. Where's the fat?"

Well, I have a question for you, potato chip bag copywriter.... Where's the [expletive] chips?

I know it's hard to see, so let me tell you that this bag of potato chips had exactly 10 chips in it. And, shocker, they were awful. They don't even bother to call them potato chips. They call them "popped chip snack." Eff you.

I brought the World's Worst Sandwich back to my car. I unwrapped it, surveyed it. It looked dreadful. But still, I'd paid for it. So I bit in.

I should have just taken this sandwich, found the person I hated most in the world, and thrown it in their face. That would have been the appropriate purpose of this sandwich. Every ingredient was the wrong temperature. It tasted like pickled dirt.

If they replaced the hospital pain chart with a chart of sandwiches, with a nice, crispy spicy buffalo chicken sandwich being a 1 -- this sandwich would represent pain so intense you begged for death. I would rather die than eat this sandwich again.

I ate a third of it anyway. Then I crumpled it up and put it on the driver's side seat. I considered running this sandwich into a tree. Taking this sandwich far out in the woods and burying it.

Instead I brought it home and threw it in the trash.

So thank you, Charlton, Massachusetts rest stop "Fresh City," for providing me with the World's Worst Sandwich. You win this time. I learned a valuable lesson today that if I desire a nosh, but also need gas, I would be better off drinking straight from the pump than eating this sandwich.

And I'm still hungry.


I'm Jeff ... said...


Made me laugh.

Surely that rest area had a McDonalds.

Steve said...

This was very amusing.

Mike said...

How about a blog post on the change of estate!?!