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I probably don’t need to make a sandwich
By Greg Hurst
Aww yeah, it’s finally time for a road trip. It’s gonna be awesome. Just us dudes, the car, and the open road to Banff. Banff is awesome. It’s like, in Alberta, and has trees and junk. I’ve packed everything and I’m pumped for touring the Trans-Canada Highway. Yeah!
I probably don’t need to pack a sandwich.
I mean, it’s not like we’ll be driving through the wilderness or anything. The Trans-Canada is bound to have pit stops. And we’ll probably be going through some small towns with good cafes and everything. There’s got to be a Tim Hortons at least. After all, it’s Canada. And up in Alberta, that’s all they eat, right? And sushi—I hear they got good sushi out there too.
We’re nearly ready to go anyway. If I made a sandwich I’d just be holding everyone back. Plus we don’t have anything to make it with. I mean, I’m not really a balogna fan. Also, car-sandwiches sort of suck: the lettuce gets the bread all moist.
I have $2.50 in my pocket. That’s enough for a muffin and a couple of Timbits at Timmy’s. There’s also change in the car. I had a big breakfast anyway. I think my bases are covered hunger-wise.
Speaking of hunger, I’m a pretty tough guy. Even if we don’t find a pit-stop, I’ll be good. Hunger is good for you, it opens your mind, it shows you what you’re made of.
Yeah, I’ll be fine without a sandwich.
No, I’m not sharing my sandwich with you, Greg
By Amir Ahmed
Greg, I’m not sharing my sandwich with you.
I made this sandwich because, as we discussed this morning, the trip is going to take a while, and the less time we spend at pit stops, the more time we’ll get to spend in Banff actually having fun. This is why I advised you to pack a sandwich for the road, and it is why I made this sandwich right here.
And it’s an excellent sandwich: I aged the beef in fancy sauces, and I used fresh ciabatta bread. I could have made you one too, but you said you were good.
It only takes a few minutes to make a snack for the road. Honestly, I don’t see why you didn’t when I told you. You said you’d just go to a Timmy’s, and you had your chance to get something at our last rest stop, but then you didn’t like how their bread looked stale. We can’t spend any more time making another pit stop. We’re already behind schedule. If we don’t get to Banff by nightfall, we’ll need to rent a motel room, and that’ll throw the entire trip off.
You always do this, Greg. Remember last time, when we went up to Whistler, and I told you to make a sandwich for yourself? You didn’t, and then you whined until I split my sandwich with you. That was a shredded turkey on a focaccia loaf. It was the sandwich equivalent of an orgasm.
I can’t believe you had the nerve to make me share that sandwich.
Do I also need to bring up our trip to Mont Tremblant, the one where I told you to borrow some skis? You didn’t, and then you could only afford to rent for the first few days and whined so much the rest of the week that I had to share my skis with you. That was a load of fun, wasn’t it, Greg? Taking turns going down the mountain and waiting 30 whole freaking minutes while the other guy goes up the ski lift to bring back the skis.
I’m not going to submit to you this time. This is my sandwich. I’m going to eat it all, and I’m going to enjoy it. I could have made you one—hell, I offered back at home—but you said no. You made the choice. You have to live with the consequences.
Fuck you Greg. I’m not giving you my sandwich.