Wednesday, February 12, 2003

While the NU campus burns the midnight oil and wrestles valiantly with academia, and while the nation collectively holds its breath in orange uncertainty, I have a small, yet important public service announcement to make.

Mr. Johns, who spawned an entire franchise of sandwich shoppes (the “es” legitimizes fast food, you see), does not make “the world’s greatest sandwiches,” as he purports. These sandwiches will fill you up, make no mistake, but do not—and I repeat, DO NOT—refrigerate these sandwiches for next-day consumption. Your fridge will inexplicably drain all taste and reason from these sandwiches.

You might object, “But how do you know this?” And I would answer, “Because it has been scientifically proven by yours truly.” You might continue to dog me and ask, “Don’t you think that perhaps the fridge was to blame?” And I would answer, “Sure, PERHAPS.” With a name like “Jimmy Johns,” though, and with his grinning, devil-may-care mug shot gracing most of his stores, how can you not slather a heaping helping of Grade A VITRIOL on his sandwiches?

Unseemly bread, languid vegetables, and sad, sad meat—you’ve been thoroughly warned.