Hoagie Massacare

[dropcap]M[/dropcap]y dog, Ellie Mae, watched me painstakingly build a sandwich.

When my sandwich was assembled, I went to the pantry in search of the perfect condiment. Something delicate, dry, with a brawny bouquet of oaken honey; perfumed, but not too rustic. I finally selected an exquisite Walmart-brand yellow mustard.

When I returned to the kitchen, I discovered that my sandwich had vanished.

So had Ellie Mae.

I took a breath, and resolved to remain calm. After all, no grievance has the power to disrupt my inner peace without my permission – except for tags on my underpants.

Subsequently, I reconstructed a new artisan hoagie from the floor up, and it was even lovelier than its predecessor. I took a brief pause to wash my hands, and when I returned, I found my plate empty again.

I slammed my fist on the counter, and spit out a phrase not fit to repeat, but that has eleven letters.

I found my sandwiches scattered on the floor of my closet, amidst Ellie’s collection of petrified frogs, dead geckos, Jamie’s chewed up bras, and something that resembled either a crab-cake, or a wad of hairballs that had been smashed into a patty.

“No ma’am,” I scolded. “That’s a very naughty girl.”

For a finishing touch, Ellie Mae placed her rear on the toasted bread, rocked her hips back and forth, and itched herself.

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