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Like a Kid in a Sandwich Shop

By Chicago Typewriter | February 15, 2010

I am eating in a sandwich shop in Lincoln Square. It’s one of my absolute favorites, mostly because when you order a roast beef and horse-radish sauce sandwich they don’t play around with the horseradish sauce. None of that Arby’s weakness; this is horse-radish, baby. I once had a dream that I was able to cure terminal illnesses just by smearing some hellastrong horse-radish on people. Come to think of it, it may have been less of a dream than a command from God. Later, I’ll call this priest I know about my “Laying on of Hot Sauces” sacrament suggestion, but he doesn’t really answer my phone calls anymore; I have to block my number and disguise my voice or he hangs up right away.

So, I’m eating in this sandwich shop and it becomes apparent to me that it’s President’s Day and there is no school. It becomes apparent to me because there are about 10^23 children in this place. That may be an exaggeration, but I can’t actually count how many of them there are here; they don’t stand still long enough. Also, February in Chicago means that the kids are all dressed and look exactly the same, so I can’t be sure that I’m not accidentally double-counting. I’m not really sure how parents can tell which kid is their own in these situations. Maybe they can identify their kids by their scent like fur seals, but I’ve smelled little kids I’ve babysat for and I can honestly say that all kids smell the same, as illustrated by this pie chart:

Another thing that makes a big group of kids hard to count is that once the number of them exceeds a given size for a given room, they begin to exhibit Brownian motion. They bounce off the walls, tables, each other, and any Filipino dudes wearing plaid flannel and holding a tray of sandwiches. Side note: children cry if a horseradish roast beef sandwich falls on their face.

Anyway, consider this an apology via blog post to the dude on whose kid I spilled my sandwich, chips, and iced tea. I’m sorry I spilled my food on him and then tried to clean it up with his scarf and then tried to bribe him with a cookie when he started to cry because I smeared the horseradish into this eyes. It turns out you’ve raised the one person in Chicago who is immune to a bribe. Excelsior to you!

Topics: Humor, City & Urban | 3 Comments »

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