Whose sandwich is this? Hello? Does anyone know whose sandwich this is? Of all the dine-in spectacles—it’s as though some hooligan committed to a single bite and vanished!

I’ll ask it only once more before I eat the damned thing myself: whose perfectly edible sandwich is sitting on this table unattended? Come on, you savages! In this heat the warm parts will grow sweaty, the moist bits soggy, the sturdy bread weakened under the weight of its own delicious innards.

HELLO? Fellow diners? Restauranter? Reveal yourselves!

And whose hand is this? Do we know whose hand is attached to this abandoned sandwich? If the owner of this hand is within earshot, now is the time to make your presence known. A sandwich by its very nature must be free enough to consume, not imprisoned by fingers that can’t be bothered to do anything besides twitch intermittently.

Are mine own hands perfect? Perhaps not. But they are strong. Driven by purpose. And one requires purposeful hands to resuscitate a deserted sandwich. Not simply for the act of grasping the sandwich, but for the maneuvering of the sandwich between the jaws.

I will liberate this shackled sandwich if that’s what needs to be done. Mark my words, I am literally seconds from claiming this sandwich as my own.

Now whose body is this? Whose limp body is extending from this twitching hand, which is still clutching this uneaten sandwich?

This is just too much. What sort of lazy brute is served a labor of bread, assorted meats, and condiments only to fall asleep on the final product, slumped over the table, face down in a pool of his own condiments?

Come on, people, let’s call a sandwich a sandwich here! At least I have the decency to arrive at my local eatery in conscious, working order. Unlike this sad sandwich-neglector who won’t even look me in the eyes! Just stares into space, mouth agape, leaking from several holes.

And look at the state of this sandwicherie. Patches of wall stained with what looks to be bolognese? Far be it from me to lecture a dinette on its operation, but typically the gentleman at the host station sits the gentleman waiting to be seated. Not lays there drenched in even more marinara than these twelve-or-so dozing people scattered about the ground.

Yes, I enjoy a night out. I prefer that experience to be free of catatonic diners and slippery floors soaked in RAGÚ Old World Style.

Oh for Chrissakes, who dropped a solid-black object on the floor? Anyone discard a solid-black, pistol-shaped object on his or her way out of the restaurant? No? What about these 30-odd bullet-casing-looking things? Hello?


Such pistol-shaped devices should be safely tucked away in a holster or fired indiscriminately at a nemesis, not resting on linoleum tripping up a hungry patron. Have to put on my glasses for a closer inspection, but–

Oh. My. God.

Forget everything I said about the sandwich.