Okay, It's about 20 to 1, and I just got back with my lunch, a Turkey and Ham with Cheese (#26) from Togo's. I go there fairly regularly; it's nearby, it's cheap, and the people who make the sandwiches wear rubber gloves, which makes me feel a little bit better (I'm sort of a Howard Hughes when it comes to food. As a result, I almost always get "the hair", or "the toenail", or "the squirrel head", or whatever...but I digress).

Anyway, Here's the point. I really don't like mayonaise. I had a bad childhood experience with it. I do, however, like mustard. I like it a lot. It's one of nature's greatest gifts.

Apparently, this makes me some kind of freak.

Whenever I order a sandwich with no Mayo, and no further explanation, I have about a 50/50 chance of not getting any mustard either. I don't know if there's some statistical correlation between liking mayo and liking mustard or what, but I always have to spend at least 3-4 extra sentences explaining that I DO want mustard but DO NOT want mayo. It doesn't matter where I go, or how strong a grasp of the English language the sandwich maker appears to have. This is a nearly universal problem. I decided I needed to find an easy phrase with which to make my sandwich needs known, one that would be clear, universally understood, and would roll off the tongue as easily as "small-26-on-white".

I used to always say "no mayo", which as mentioned above was often insufficient. I then started saying "no mayo, but with mustard," which I thought would surely do the trick. Nope. Tried "without mayo, with mustard." People still screwed it up, or looked at me quizzically, and asked "no mustard?".

"!!!!"

After extensive experimentation, I have found one phrase which seems to work almost all the time, "no mayo, yes mustard." Of course, this makes me sound like some kind of linguistically impaired pinhead, but people seem to get it.

So now I order my lunches from Togo's thus:
"Small 26 on white with provolone no mayo yes mustard."

Realizing that I have now written 2 entries in a row about lunchtime dramas, I resolve to write about something else tomorrow.

Maybe something about prairie dogs?

No, probably not.

God Dammit.

Somebody stole my lunch.

We have a refrigerator here at the office, and this policy where you have to label and date everything you put in there so people know whose it is, since apparently people have trouble recognizing things that aren't theirs.

So, sometime between 9am and noon, some asswipe made off with my clearly labeled and dated burrito.

I have only one consolation. The burrito in question was prepared by my father-in-law on his last visit. Roy is an extraordinary chef, especially where mexican food is concerned.

And he does not mess around.

Roy's burritos are insidiously spicy. They taste really good, and there is definitely some "heat" to them, but they save their most potent weaponry for their journey down the lower ailamentary canal about 12-14 hours after eating.

To anyone who has not yet built up a strong tolerance to capsicum, the spicy element in peppers and chiles, the effect is not unlike having Vick's VapoRub mixed with hydrochloric acid injected into your anus every time you evacuate your bowels, which will be about every 15 minutes over the course of 3 hours or so. Basically, these things employ a slash-and-burn, scorched-earth policy on the diner's colon.

So whoever you are, you burrito-theiving heathen, all I can say to you is I hope you enjoy your evening on the toilet.

Slash and Burn, baby...slash, and, BURN!!!

So my wife, who is far more brilliant than I, came up with the perfect name for this contraption. "Work on Machine". That's what I'm going to call this thing. Here's the back-story:

Once upon a time in San Bruno, Lee, Dave, myself, and Dave's friend Nate were at a very fine flea market. Among the many mysterious treasures, lying on a table that held mostly unfilled bullet shells, slugs, wadding, and empty black powder containers, we found an old datebook, circa 1965 by the look of it. It had been well-used by the previous owner; almost all the pages had been filled up. Here's the wierd part. Every day, EVERY, SINGLE, DAY, had the same appointment - "Work on machine." Really. I'm not making this up. Every day said "Work on machine." No mention of what the machine was, or what work was to be performed, just that single, automaton-like imperative, "Work on machine."

As we continued to page through this remarkable masterpiece of autistic savantism, we found that after a few months, the guy had switched to just putting ditto marks on each day. There was never any mention of "Finish machine," or "Test machine," or "Unlease machine on unsuspecting populace," or any indication that this endeavor ever bore any fruit. Maybe that's a good thing; given the other artifacts on display at that particular table, I can only shudder at what the nature of this all-encompassing project might have been.

Every time I think of this artifact, I slap myself in the head, hard. Because, no, I did not purchase it. I don't know why I didn't - I thought it was beautiful when I found it, and I think it was like 75 cents or something. Maybe I was just overloaded by the detritus of human lives that surrounded me, like the broken Felix the Cat clock and the Penthouse Swizzle Sticks that turned into naked ladies when you put them in your drink. For whatever reason, I passed up a golden opportunity, and I will forever regret that.

So here it is. Welcome to "Work on Machine." I hope you enjoy it, for as long as it lasts. Don't get too attached. I'll most likely delete it in the morning.