Original humor & comedy articles daily weblog

Deli, Deli, Wherefore Art Thou Going?

Well, that sucks ass.

When I stopped by the deli in my office building for lunch today, I saw a bunch of signs saying that ‘Coming Soon!’ was some Italian restaurant or other. Poopstain.

Now, don’t get me wrong — I don’t have anything against Italian restaurants, particularly. And certainly, I’ve got nothing against Italians.

(No, really — I love Italians. I promise! You hear me out there, Dons and Donnesses? We’re cool — there’s no need to send Vinny or Guido or ‘Frankie the Blade’ to break my thumbs. Again. Jeez, the last time I pissed one of you off, I couldn’t play Madden for weeks. And the pinkies were overkill, frankly. You can break people’s bones to make a point and still be subtle about it, dammit. You people gotta stop watching so much Scorcese.

Um… I mean all of that with the greatest respect, of course. Simply the greatest. Really. Don’t hurt me. Good mobsters, yes you are.)

All right, what was I bitching about again? Oh, right, the deli.

So, apparently the sandwich shop is closing up soon, to be replaced by a bunch of pasta-pushers and pizza-pumpers.

(Which, again, is meant with the utmost respect, I assure you. Why, I don’t even mean the ‘pushing’ and ‘pumping’ parts as sexual euphemisms. This ain’t American Pizza Pie, folks.)

Like I said, I don’t mind Italian food. I like a good alfredo as much as the next guy. And garlic bread kicks ass — it’s one of those meals that keeps on giving, you know? To you, and your neighbors, and your sweetheart, and — if it’s good enough — the family in the duplex across the street, too. And spaghetti — well, okay, I’m not really a big fan of spaghetti, frankly. There was some… unpleasantness once. We’d been drinking, and there was some talk — a ‘double dog dare’ was involved, as I recall. But I don’t want to bore you with the sordid details; there’s no need to get into who crammed what into where, really. Let’s just say that sometimes when I pee, I can still taste pasta. And I’m glad we weren’t arguing over ziti, or — heaven forbid — elbow macaroni at the time. Yeeks.

Anyway, Italian food is okay, and deli food isn’t my favorite to begin with. There’ll be plenty of time for ‘soup and half a sandwich’ when I’m ninety — I’ll order it with my ‘old fart’ pants pulled up around my nipples, and bitch the whole time I gum it down about how delis were better ‘back in my day’. I’ll probably say, ‘bah‘ a few times. ‘Whippersnappers’ may be mentioned. It’ll be a hoot. Really.

But the real tragedy is that I’ve finally, after months of trying (and posting about my efforts — twice, even!), gotten the good folks at the deli broken in. ‘Short girl with the Pooh hat’ always asks how I’m doing and knows just what I want, and ‘guy who seems to be in charge’ only asks what I’m having a couple of times a week before ringing me up.

(No word on what happened to ‘tall surly Middle Eastern guy’ — I tend to think he got canned after a customer asked him for extra mustard or a diagonally-sliced sandwich or something, and T.S.M.E.G. leapt over the counter and beat the customer into submission with a bottle of Snapple. I’ve got nothing to back that up, of course — he just had that look, you know? Plus, the bastard would never cut my sandwich in half, diagonally or otherwise. Weenie.)

Like I said in those earlier posts, all I ever really wanted was to be a ‘regular’. It’s nice to be able to walk into a place, cruise past the ‘tourists’ checking out the menu, exchange a few pleasantries, and bada boom, bada bing — there’s my sandwich, right on schedule. And I’m willing to go the extra mile to get there — I’ll visit the same place, day after day, and get the same damned sandwich, time after time. I’ve done it before, people. I don’t mind paying my dues.

But once I’ve paid my goddamned dues, the last thing I want is to have my lunch place whisked out from under me, and replaced with some pissant pasta parlor. Sure, I can start going there, and build up my ‘regularness’ again, but for the love of greased-up hookers, folks — that shit takes forever!

Bah! (See, I’m saying it already. This shit is driving me old. Again, I say ‘Bah!‘)

I guess there’s still a teeny little glimmer of hope. Maybe, for strange and inexplicable reasons, the owners of the new Italian establishment will keep the same staff that’s in the deli now. None of which are Italian, as far as I can tell. Plus, I’m guessing that my deli-style chicken sammich on an onion roll is probably not going to be prominently featured on the new menu. So even if the same people stick around, I’ll still have to consult the menu when I start going in there again, like all the other wet-behind-the-ears newbies, and they’ll still look at me with those blank, empty stares for a few months, until I get them settled into a new groove. Bitches!

Oh, and damn — I just thought of this — the place will be closed altogether for a few weeks while they switch over! Bull puckey! Oh, this just sucks so much ass. What comes after ‘Bah!‘, anyway? Double bah? Buh-bah? Bah bah birdie?

Oh, wait, I know:

Bitches!!!

Yeah, that’s the stuff. I don’t feel better, particularly, but at least I’ve figured out how to properly express myself. Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch bee-yiotch! Bah.