First I want to complain about the guy who made my sandwich. His name was Tony. Tony was new. Tony was very nice. Way too nice. Tony was so nice, he was completely obnoxious. Everything Tony said made me want to punch him in the balls with a knife. Tony had a loose bandage on the back of his neck, one that swayed and flapped in the breeze of the building’s air conditioning unit, spreading a wave of HIV with every flutter. At least Tony smiled, but Tony also had a habit of spitting when he attempted to pronounce certain words. Words like sorry, spit, and sandwich. I forgive you, Tony, for spitting on my sandwich.
Anyway, I got my Buffalo Chicken with Italian Herbs and Cheese bread, provolone cheese, heated instead of toasted, and topped with lettuce, tomato, cucumber, onions, and ranch dressing. As is usually the case, the toppings were all fresh, the lettuce and cucumber were crispy, and the onions were crunchy.
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