An Honest Assessment Of My Sack Lunch

Your old, handsome pal C-dog is going through a bit of a financial crunch over the next few weeks... nothing serious, of course; not planning any liquor store robberies, nor am I intending to woo the Countess of Andorra (who looks like a grouper wearing too much make-up) in an effort to get at her priceless jewels... I'm just, you know, cutting back a bit. Scaling it down. Putting an embargo on any and all buying of solid gold pants, diamond-stuffed cheeseburgers, or luxury cars that run on the blood of virgins. And also, I'm bringing in a sack lunch to work every day. I know, I know... I should have been doing this all along. Sue me, I'm a fat ass creature of habit who thinks food doesn't taste good unless it's made for me by underpaid blue collar workers that hate me and my way of tossing crumpled dollar bills at them while laughing and laughing and twirling my cane and polishing my monocle and doffing my top hat to "the ladies" (what can I say, I multitask like a motherfucker).

Anyway, seeing as how I'm an official member of the "Brown-Bag Bringer" club (which I just made up; no girls allowed, unless they're easy), I think it would be an absolutely wonderful idea to take a hard look at just what exactly I've brought to eat for my noontime meal. I trust you're up for what promises to be the wildest ride ever in the history of lunch? Good, let's get on with it. Bring a napkin:

An Honest Assessment of my Sack Lunch, or, "The Power and the Glory of Cheap Ham"

Sandwich, pt 1 - At the store this weekend, I bought some spiced ham. Which I had never heard of before. I mean I'd heard of ham of course (you can tell that just by clapping eyes on my bulk), but I was unaware there was a "spiced" variety. What sort of spices? Why it could be anything, so vague is it's name. Truthfully, I was skeptical. "Spiced" is a word that brings to mind ciders and mulled wines, heavy on the cloves and cinnamon, and those are not things that I generally associate with smoked pig products. However, it was very, very cheap... $2.99-a-pound, specifically, which is practically like giving it away free when you sign up for a checking account or fill your car with a tank of unleaded. And I got a TON of it. Like, a ham brick. If I were to hit you over the head with this meaty wad, you'd fucking die, so weighty was my spiced ham bounty. I also got some cheese, but it was Monterrey Jack and unexciting as far as cheese goes... no peppers, nor was it an intense, traffic light yellow. Just white and cheesy, much like myself. And who needs to be reminded of their flaws by dairy products?

Anyway, the spiced ham turned out to be pretty good. I mean, it tasted like ham. Low-quality ham, sure, but I wasn't exactly expecting a gourmet meat experience. And when combined with the cheese... unimpressive and shrug-worthy though it may be... it adds up to as decent a combo as one can reasonably expect for such a low, low price.

Sandwich, pt 2 - The meat and the cheese are bound in yellow mustard and white bread. So suburban, so evocative of our collective childhoods... nostalgia you can eat and a platform from which your brain can launch a thousand memories of your youthful innocence, before you discovered booze and drugs and that rush you get when you strangle a hobo to death with your bare hands behind a check-cashing place in the middle of the night (allegedly, pending investigation). They scream at me the words, "lunchbox," and "recess," and "having to eat with the slow kids, because he got a concussion during kickball and now Clint can't recognize shapes or colors." Ah, to be a kid again, huh? So innocent... so free... god, someone should have warned me about life. Told me what was out there... waiting... like a tiger in a tree, claws at the ready. I would have played with more handguns or eaten those pills that looked so much like M&Ms.

But yeah, my sandwich is on white bread with a healthy smear of yellow mustard. Tasty, but fraught with psychological torment. Will have to eat it quickly, so I'm not overwhelmed.

Cheddar Flavored Mini- Rice Cakes - What the hell happened to me? Not so long ago, my lunch would have been bursting with exotically flavored Pringles (Bacon Ranch! Regular Ranch! Southwestern Ranch!) and/or some sort of hot n' spicy pretzel that was filled with sour cream and a shot of Everclear. But now... rice cakes. I mean, where did I lose my way? At least they're cheddar-flavored... at least I haven't completely forgotten my roots. Synthetically produced and dusted on like fingerprint powder at a crime scene, it is the only thing that makes these discs of pure, uncut blandness palatable. And even then, only just. Because what are rice cakes but boredom made corporeal and mass marketed to those of us who are fat and would like to be less so? No amount of tawdry chemically-enhanced flavoresque substance can void their dull, flat shame. Your spinster aunt all dressed up for a night on the town is still the same lady that drinks weak tea and has five cats and watches QVC all weekend, if you follow me.

Apple - This is perfect actually because, post-lunch, I like to reenact Bible verses at my cubicle and I'm always short on props. I'll OF COURSE be playing both Adam and Eve, as I'm very talented and always looking for an excuse to bust out the fig leaves. Now I've just got to coerce one of my coworkers into playing the Snake...

Tiny Box of Junior Mints - Sad. I mean, sure, tasty and chocolaty and minty and as good a dessert as I'm going to get on my budget, but... again, and for always... sad. It's just candy, you say, and that's true, but when eaten in an office environment, it becomes this symbol of all the good things in life that you're not getting to enjoy because you're trapped in a dead-end job that's slowly killing off your soul in increments until you suddenly realize that you're the kind of person who looks at billing deadlines as the end of the world and gets really excited about taking a conference call because it means that at least then people have to talk to you. The tiny box of Junior Mints are the highlight of your pathetic, miserable day. Sometimes, they're the highlight of your life. And that, my friends, is SAD. Also, you only get like five in a box. Whatever, Junior Mints. Stingy bastards.