Probing Probability

WARNING: CORNBALL JOKES. Proceed with caution.


I like submarine sandwiches, even though I find it hard to eat underwater. Nyuck-fucking-nyuck.

Every time I go to Subway, I get the same thing: botulism. And the vehicle of transmission is always a footlong-veggie-and-cheese-on-whole-wheat-bread-with-everything-except-green-peppers-and-southwest-chipotle-sauce. Today, for some reason, they charge me almost a buck more for it than usual. $6.49? If I want to get gouged, I'll go to Quizno's.

As if that weren't bad enough, the bun's the stalest I've ever had from any Subway outlet (and I've eaten at the ones along Mississippi highways in the hottest and darkest of August nights), but to add injury to insult, there's a rock in the sandwich. Not a small piece of cooked bone, but a rock. It could have been igneous, basalt or granite, but I dropped it before I could take it down to the Earth Sciences building at the ol' alma mater for a thorough testing. I finished the rest of the sandwich in slow motion, working at it with the caution of a mine sweeper.

At least I didn't chomp down hard on it like I did a few months ago, when I crunched a rock in my felafel from Laila's and almost broke a molar. What pisses me off the most about finding a bonus in my fast food isn't so much the dental damage, but the fact that I can't ever bite into something valuable for a change, like a gold doubloon, or the Hope diamond, or one of the many pairs of sunglasses I've lost. In a universe where anything is possible, why does it always have to be a rock?