There is a conspiracy in Muncie. No, I'm not talking about the "Police Yourself" campaign. This is a conspiracy of a much graver urgency; a conspiracy of ineptitude. This is a mayonnaise conspiracy.
I first became aware of the situation a couple weeks ago. Hunger hunted me like a dog and chased me to Jimmy John's where I ordered my habitual consumption preference: "a hunters club, on French, no mayo".
I ordered this regular sandwich of mine at the drive-thru. At the time of the infraction, the store had three employees and no other customers; just little ol' me.
Now, consider this: My order must go through only two people. I place an order with the tattooed guy at the window. He relays this information to the pierced sandwich craftsman. This is not a game of telephone here. It is a simple line of communication with no possible interference.
After a moments wait, I received my sandwich (deceptively wrapped in paper that hides its contents, mind you!) in exchange for a nominal fee. I commuted to my humble abode where I intended to devour the supposed "a hunter's club, on French, no mayo" whilst watching bootlegs of the Cartoon Network's "Clone Wars" series on my computer.
Cozily snugged away into my computer chair, I began watching episode 17. I unwrapped my sandwich. Just as Anakin Skywalker was instructing his clonetroopers to watch the perimeter, I took a gargantuan bite from my $5 club. It did not taste like delicious roast beef, but like the astringency of some vague meat covered in fatty slime to the point of indiscernible flavor.
Mayonnaise. Abhorrent.
Do you even know what mayonnaise is made of? Oil, vinegar and the fetal matter of chickens! No condiment is worthy of my taste buds, but mayonnaise above all is most despicable.
I was consumed with vile rage and hatred. To burn off my raw, irrational anger, I ate the sandwich anyway. I ate it violently, biting off pieces of my inside-cheek in the process. The vile mayonnaise made the sandwich fillings slippery with cholesterol and hunters club ingredients squirted out from all sides upon every bite. I gave in to the Condiment Illuminati and was left with a sick stomach.
The following evening I decided to protest the local sandwich establishment and award my patronage to Mr. Dave Thomas. I order the new regular order: "A number seven, Biggie-sized, no mayo." I regarded the Jackson Street Wendy's as a fine establishment and trusted that they, if no one else, could correctly take my order.
Five dollars less and one short drive later, I was back at The Mouse Pad. I first ate half of my fries, perhaps due to some subconscious procrastination rooted in fear of mayonnaise. Eventually I bit into my sandwich and what do I detect on my tongue?
Oil, vinegar and the fetal matter of chickens. Mayonnaise.
Write to Ben at bbmcshane@bsu.edu
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