Bite ME, Quiznos!

Your commercials repulse me, but that's not even why I despise you right now.

First, you are the only food-vending establishment within easy walking distance of my office, which, though arguably not your fault, annoys me.

Second, your flashy, over-designed menu makes me feel like I'm having a seizure in a foreign country. No matter how I stare I cannot decode it.

Third, your food, while edible, does not come nestled in a Faberge egg. There is no reason for a goddamn turkey sandwich and chips to cost seven dollars. That's a small turkey sandwich and pre-packaged chips--nothing special. No, really. It's fine for lunch, but it is nothing special.

Finally, the dumbass working your counter can't hold a wisp of thought long enough to construct the sandwich I actually ordered. Would someone please tell me what's so tricky about putting together a mediocre sandwich? I went over there today, and after ten minutes of staring at the menu and twitching I said, "Look, I can't read that thing. I just want a small turkey with swiss and mustard on wheat." How hard is that? She seemed on top of it, too, responding with a cool, "Lettuce, tomato, and onion?" To which I replied, "NO. Thank you."

Is there anything ambiguous about that conversation? I must not have the requisite objectivity for seeing it, but it's there, somewhere, because after being shaken down for seven dollars I trudged back to my office and found . . . fucking lettuce, tomato, and onion all up in my sandwich. It was that sadistic shredded lettuce, too, all tenacious and ubiquitous and ineradicable. I HATE lettuce. And once it's been on your stupid sandwich--especially after being passed through a toaster--you can't get the taste out even after scraping and picking and CURSING until there are no visible traces left.

I can see how a challenged person might be stymied by a request to add something weird to a sandwich, but this was not a complicated order. I told her what I wanted in plain speech. All she had to do was listen to my words. There wasn't even the barrier to communication commonly known as the "drive-thru"; I looked her right in the eyes.

So screw you, Quiznos. I'm not going there anymore. I'll drive.