Wednesday, November 26, 2003

Yesterday was not the best day. At around noon, I became very hungry and decided to grab a bite to eat. Because it had been three days since my last meal (corn kernal sandwich with beet paste and homegrown mushrooms), I was open for pretty much anything. I looked around the shopping center by my hovel and spotted a Subway. Subway always looks so good in the commercials, and it's named after a famous public transportation system, so I decided to give it a go.

Upon entering the restaurant, I was shocked to see that it was not a sit down restaurant, but a very stream-lined establishment where you go right up to the counter and have the "sandwich-maker" make your order for you right on the spot. How exciting! Now, I should warn you, I'm a big believer in numerology so my sandwich must be made to very exact standards. Because it was Tuesday, November 25, my sandwich could not contain an even number of objects. This presented a problem to the sandwich maker immediately.

"We can't make an 11-inch sandwich," he said.

This presented a quandary. How could I eat a potentially delicious sandwich that would violate my personal belief system. A belief system that has saved me from many precarious situations, such as being washed away in a Mongolian flash flood and having my arm severed by the Matterhorn Bobsleds at Disneyland.

After much deep thinking by the sandwich-maker, he assured me that he could accommodate my needs. The sandwich-maker took the bread and walked back into a separate kitchen (one which he assured me did not violate my "strange and mysterious" beliefs). Four minutes later he returned with a properly made sandwich, all wrapped up and ready to go.

"Is it 11 inches?" - Yes, he said.

"Are there an odd number of meatballs, onions and jalapenos?" - Yes, he said.

And so I walked home to enjoy my tasty 11-inch meatball sub in private. To my horror, I discovered that my meatball sub did not contain meatballs, but a piece of human fecal matter. When I returned to the store with my receipt, the manager grabbed me by the shirt collar, took me out back, and beat me with the tuna fish scooper while three of his sandwich-makers held me down and poured southwest horseradish sauce down my pants. For five minutes they pummeled me with the tuna fish scooper until I had round welts all over my body.

The three sandwich-makers stopped beating me to each have a cigarette.

"It's our smoke break," they explained to the manager.

The manager cursed at them and called them lazy. He also lit up a cigarette, but kept himself busy by rummaging through my pants until he found my wallet. When they saw the name on my ID, one of the sandwich-makers pulled a tiny razor blade out of his wallet and carved the word "hippie freak" on my forehead. The other sandwich-makers went back inside and returned with loaves of bread. While I lay motionless on the ground, they beat me with the loaves of bread. They made a point of explaining to me that they were beating me with an even number of bread loaves.

This is the point when things become hazy. I am a pacifist by nature, but sometimes people just go too far. I closed my eyes, summoned the powers of the number 5, and began kicking my legs in a fevered motion. The sandwich-makers paused briefly and then began stomping on my legs. What they didn't realize was how powerful my legs are. The first two sandwich-makers were flung approximately 13.44 feet, and rendered unconscious. The manager quickly put out his cigarette and approached me. By this time I was on my feet.

"Power of cats, unite!" I screamed and began waving my arms.

The manager laughed. The other sandwich-maker laughed and walked back inside.

"You should probably leave now, unless you want me to go back inside, grab my cash register, and beat your head with it. I lift weights at the gym, so don't doubt my strength." the manager stated, hubristically.

I simply smiled and told him that I would be writing a very angry letter to the San Francisco Chronicle that would properly gauge my indignation.

To make a long story short, I will never go to Subway again.

My name is Albert Springtime Jones. I like long, naked walks on the beach. I spent the 1990's walking from the base of the Nile to Cape Town, South Africa. I took many pictures during my trek, but lost them in a freak zebra incident which I am forbidden to discuss by edict of the Namibian government. I am a street musician. I have written 17 musicals, mostly about cats. I usually perform them in public squares. Admission is free, I only ask that you give me love, and food for my many cats.

I have 14 cats. Their names are: Nelson Mandella Cat, Poquo QuJibo Cat, Azeqal-Pk'til Jr., Revolution, Def Jam Kitty, Exacto-cat, Frehab-Liko'ty-dinobo, Yoko Ono, Anita Hill Cat, Rainbow Living, Sunshine Cat No. 1, Sunshine Cat No. 3, and Sunshine Cat No. 4. Sadly, I lost Sunshine Cat No. 2 in an unfortunate encounter with a thresher during a personal appearance just outside Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

I recently lined my hovel with aluminum foil to protect myself from mind rays. I can feel the lining working as I no longer have the desire to drink Coca Cola or use soap when I bathe. My protection from the mind rays has also given me a new sense of enlightenment. Over the past month I have added 400 new pages to my upcoming biography of our greatest American President, Martin Van Buren. In addition to my biography on Van Buren, I've also figured out a way to introduce Martin Van Buren into my epic "Back to the Future/Quantum Leap" crossover fan-script. I don't want to delve too deeply into my script, but it involves an aborted revolutionary mollusk party in Kinderhook, New York and the number 6.

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