F**K SUBWAY!

How hard is it to get f**king ‘sandwich’ right? It’s not a complicated order. It’s a f**king pizza sub! There’s two kinds of meat that go on it. If you’ve only put one on there, your job’s only half done.

Back the f**k up there princess, don’t go passing that half-dressed bread roll down the line just yet! Oh no, you’re not done yet, I whole-f**king-heartedly congratulate you on managing the difficult ‘pepperoni’ part of this sandwich-making saga, but you still need to take a good hard look at yourself, stare that salami in the eye and lay the bad boy down on my sandwich.

That’s right mother f**ker.

Pepperoni. Salami. Both at the same time. Your mind has officially been blown. It’s a mother f**king pizza sub. Yeah, you did that. You successfully navigated a recipie consisting of;

Bread
Pepperoni
Salami
CheeseThere's gotta be an award for that now!

Now on to the FAQ:

Have I f**ked up this sandwich?
Oh yeah. It’s well f**ked now.


Can I still save it and sell it to this poor c**t?
Sure, why not. What’s wrong with it?


I only put one kind of meat in the pizza sub, made the cheese look like it was layed out by some a quadraplegic in the middle of a seizure and I’ve already toasted the poor f**ker within an inch of it’s life.
Should I just check some more meat on top of this crime scene of a sandwich and shove it back into the toaster?
Yeah, why the f**k not? Sure the guy can see you doing it so you better ask him if he actually wants what he ordered first. That’ll insult his intelligence. Then spray that processed meat-imitation all over the place so the sandwich looks like an axe-murder’s flesh-based stress ball. Now cook that f**ked up train-wreck of a sandwich. Blacken the f**k out of it. Make it burn like you want every f**king customer to. You'll know it's done when it looks like a the contents of an orphan's lunchbox after it's been pulled from the ashes of the school fire that killed him and his three-legged dog, lucky.


Got it! It smells a lot like burnt plastic and deisel. What's next?
Last step here champ, take that fire-raped corpse of a lunch out of the oven, turn around and dump it on the salad bench, smile, and ask the poor c**t what salads he’d like on his charred pile of ashes like everything is hunky-f**king-dory.

F**k yeah!