Monday, September 20, 2010

Post Uno

This is from a tumblr blog i found..a comedy troupe from london ontario.

Buffalo Chicken Sandwich.

It was a nice idea; let’s go out for a tantalizing dinner with some of the best people I know. We can sit around, break bread, enjoy some reasonably-priced food and have a few alcoholic beverages.
Or so I thought.
Friends, my preconceived notions of this meal being a harmless combination of tom-foolery and sustenance were shattered by the buffalo chicken sandwich.
Oh, the sandwich was good, nay, great. I’ve eaten some sandwiches in my time, and this one was just a notch above adequate. It was not to the stellar level where the restaurant could name it “The Carl Sagan of Buffalo chickens,” but it was just a quick bump above “eeehhh, this is OK, not the best but OK.”
Now that we have established the level of sandwich this was, I’m going to take you through the meal. I took a bite into this sandwich and was rewarded with some tangy, slightly spicy, boat load of runny chicken goo all over my face and tongue.
Needless to say, I was scalded. I braced myself for the second bite. I slowed down, reminding myself, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither should this sandwich be consumed hastily. Slow playing the sandwich, I ate at a leisurely pace and sat back. When the meal was through, I was fully satisfied and ready to pay whatever bill was to be thrust my way.
I went about my evening unaware of what was going on in my innards.
For within that sandwich was an organized force that would make any trained navy seal or marine shiver in its wake. There was an army amassing within me, and as I slept they continued to grow stronger and stronger.
For those of you who have seen war, this is my tour of duty.
They built up their war machines, made their fudge fortress strong and disposed of the waste in his colon- waiting for the mass exodus that would erupt when he drew his first conscious breaths.
The Commander awoke and went about his early morning urination regiment, then began to feel the civil war within. Thinking quickly and acting quicker, he aborted the typical urination and went into damage control.
He then mentally pressed the big red button within his head: total lock down. Throwing himself on the porcelain evacuation chamber he purged the mini-Hiroshima that churned within.
The sandwich had mutated, becoming something both painful and awe inspiring. He was completely incapacitated while the sandwich launched its first strike, which was equivalent to an oompa loompa-suicide-bomber in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. The whole of the Chocolate River flash flooded from the factory. Orange headed little bastards.
He was certain there were heavy casualties on both sides and made the decision to retreat and save invaluable magazines of ammunition. I literally mean magazines. This war could not be won without national geographic.
The sandwich had not yet shown its true destructive power.
Not 10 minutes after the first attack, reinforcements arrived. These boys had training. They used the spices from the exotic region of Buffalo; it was like a flamethrower brigade. He was losing the battle, demoralized and completely on fire. The fields of battle ran red; the fans tried to disperse the smell of the sandwich’s fallen warriors.
The fans droned on and on, completely helpless to drown out the sounds of battle. The conflict seemed to get worse, while the Commander prayed for a cold winter to slow the battle and turn the tide of war.
Exhausted and spent, each side returned to their bunkers. The sandwich began to recruit further numbers, preparing for a final blowout assault.
After checking the daily news, the Commander knew it was time. Turning to an old surplus of magazines, he set in for the long fight. History is told by the winners, and he was going to tell the story of this war, not the bloody sandwich.
Digging hand and nail into the sides of the porcelain evacuation chamber, the Commander bared down and bombed the enemy off the field. Sandwich casualties flowed like the River of the Dead from Greek mythology. The boatman had a busy day.
The noise was deafening and could be heard throughout the lands. Those uninvolved offered aid and sympathy. But the Commander assured the others, “The worst is over now.”
As the air rose over the Commander’s neck, he felt the relief he had hoped for. It was a chill, like snowflakes softly falling and cradling his wounds. The winter had come, blanketing the casualties of war in an otherworldly-veil. All were at peace. A monkey wrench had been thrown into the gears of the sandwich’s war machine.
A vast sigh of relief breathed throughout the lands. Man was safe against the foul oppressor sandwich, which was tasty to the lips, but when given praise and trust returned with a malicious assault rarely seen by man.
The Commander showered in tears, hoped to soothe the physical and emotional wounds brought on by the day’s fight. The water streamed down the battlefield like the tears from the Commander’s face. He was surrounded by sadness for all the day’s casualties and for what could have been, if only the Buffalo chicken sandwich joined forces with man.

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