Do you know who I am? He must not know who I am.

March 7, 2009 at 8:05 pm 2 comments

I went to Subway for a steak & cheese sub but  Mr. Subway did not get the birthday memo.   I asked for the yummy Italian herbs & cheese bread, but he said they were out.  No problem, I say, I’ll take regular Italian bread.  He gives me plain wheat.  I’m not going to get my panties twisted over bread, so this too is no problem.

Then he asks me what I want on it, and I tell him that I would like a steak & cheese sub, but NO, he says they do not make steak & cheese subs.  Weird, but again, no problem, I’ll just go with the Italian BMT sub.   While my sub is toasting, he helps the man in line behind me with his order.  Much to my surprise, he orders a cheese steak sub, and Mr. Subway makes him one.

While Mr. Subway is putting the veggies on my sub, I asked, “What’s the difference between a steak & cheese and a cheese steak?”  He replies with, “Not much.  Many people say the cheese steak is better.”   Thank God the only difference  is quality because I’d sure hate to MISS OUT.   I feel better now that I know that.

And that is the story of how I ended up with an inferior sub sandwich on my birthday.


Entry filed under: Daily.

How do you pause this thing? In lieu of words

2 Comments Add your own

  • 1. DarcsFalcon  |  March 7, 2009 at 11:57 pm

    What a jerk. You should have told him who you were. I admire your restraint.

    Hope you have a great dinner anyway!

  • 2. DarcKnyt  |  March 8, 2009 at 12:53 am

    What an ASS. Gimme his address and I’ll go in, order a sandwich, change my mind, ask for different one on different bread, and just before he makes that one, I’ll change my mind again. Then I’ll tell him I want everything on it and when he starts to put certain items on, I’ll change my mind and scream, “NO, NOT THAT SHIT!! I’M DEATHLY ALLERGIC TO IT!!” And I’ll do that randomly until the sandwich is almost finished. Then I’ll change my mind again. Then when he thinks he finally has one finished, and puts the mystery dust in the shaker on it, I’ll look horrified and say, “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry — I forgot my wallet. Forget the whole thing.”

    That’ll learn ‘im.

    Or maybe I’ll just egg his car for you.


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The Days Go By

March 2009
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Stranger obviously isn't my real name, but it's close enough. I'm a woman in my late twenties, live in the midwest, and I blog a lot about nothing, although not often. You're welcome.

Questions, love letters, and hate mail can be sent to: typewords at, and I can be found on Twitter.

Finally, my only rule for commenting is: play nice and don't be a jerkface.


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