Jane Sane’s Sub Sandwich Story

by Jane Sane

So I was on my way to the bar to have my sister’s dildo cleaned (long story), and I passed a local sub chain. Don’t even get me started on chains in general. Now, I know we live in a male-dominated society packed full of phallic imagery, but come on! Do people even look at where, and what, they’re eating? These sub chains are all the same; feeding troughs for the ignorant masses who need a quick way to fuel their unsustainable lifestyle.

"Stuff it down like a twelve inch hero you pig."

Happy, smiling customers are greeted at the door by  colorful murals of thick, meaty subs like so many overdone pornographic pin-ups. As the door cracks open, the gentle smell wafts over the nose of the expecting customer. Oh, that smell. Like a very dilute smell of feces crossed with the aroma of fine artisan breads.

Then, the hungry animal wanders over to the ordering station, where they are greeted by the chipper attendant. Then, they both simultaneously decide whether or not to make eye contact. If not, all goes smoothly and according to plan, but if so, the game is on. What micro-friendship will be so briefly made and carelessly discarded? Will it be honest and friendly, or mechanical and forced? Either way there is the vital, and not-so-vaguely sexual question: What size do you want? 6 inch? Foot long? Double meat? What about bacon?

Next, your modest masterpiece makes it way down the assembly line to the veggies. Want some lettuce to add some substance to this flaccid stick of machined bread, preserved meat, and flavorless cheese? Cucumbers? No, they won’t be any use to you sliced. Onions? Yeah, sure… if you want your mouth to taste and smell like a hooker’s vagina.

Don’t forget condoments! How about some mayonnaise to simulate globs of semen dripping down its shaft? Mustard will make it spicy. Or perhaps your fetish is more of a “specialty sauce”. Maybe something French, Asian, Italian, or Ranch.

Then, just like your last one-night-stand, once the phallus gets double-bagged to go you’re all set to get filled. In a heartwearming, chin-cramping exchange, useless tokens are exchanged for food and the cycle begins anew for the chipper attendant. As for the customer, its on to forcing that thing down while simultaneously trying not to gag. Ring a bell? You could cut the irony with a knife… figuratively!