Lunch Wars: The Unyielding Insistence of the Lunchtatorship

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ACT ONE: WE CAN DO IT

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Some dictatorships are crueler than others. One is infinitely crueler than all others combined. It is known as the Lunchtatorship.

There is also hypocrisy in the Lunchtatorship: not all those who go to lunch are treated equally.

It is a cruel and hypocritical Lunchtatorship, it is.

Consider the result when B’hab the Backhanded doesn’t go to lunch with the rest of the Jerk Lab:

“What a loser,” proclaimed Benenate the Backhanded. Then the Jerk Lab would proceed to whichever fast food restaurant for lunch.

Then there’s the Benenate, who very often misses lunch for a variety of reasons:

Then the Jerk Lab would proceed to whichever fast food restaurant for lunch. Wasn’t that easy?

Mike Warbucks the Travel Monkey is another misser of lunches. What happens when he misses a lunch?

Then the Jerk Lab would proceed to whichever fast food restaurant for lunch.

Crowbar misses lunches with the Lunchtatorship like it’s nobody’s business. The result?

Then the Jerk Lab would proceed to whichever fast food restaurant for lunch. No one even batted an eye.

When Anderoo the Acerbic lived in the States and became health-conscious, little was said then.

“Come to lunch, Anderoo,” Benenate whined.

“No, I’m just heading home for a lunch of three spoonfuls of peanut butter,” Anderoo would reply.

“Okay,” Benenate conceded. Disappointed, but leaving it at that.

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ACT TWO: DECLARE WAR ON THY TONGUE

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No one in their right mind could blame anyone for having a severe dislike for any of the fast food restaurants in Prison Town, particularly when the Jerk Lab-favorite, Nicky Doodles, is closed for the winter. When a scene like this goes from one redeeming quality down to zero, it’s difficult to consistently sustain one’s appetite.

What’s wrong with Arby’s? Salt-shaker City. Unapologetically employs a uniquely awful salt raked up from putrid lands that account for eighty-five percent of the taste in every item. Sandwich makers who refuse to leave out the mayonnaise, despite repeated requests, apparently taking offense. (“My grandfather worked in the Mayonnaise Mines so you better like it.”) When it’s nie impossible to discern – with eyes closed – between the fries and the chicken sandwich, you’ve got a serious problem on your hands.

What’s wrong with Wendy’s? Dave Thomas is dead.

What’s wrong with Kentucky Fried Chicken? Deaaaaaathhhhhh… An invariable upper-cut and noogie combo to the heart. Eighty percent of each piece of chicken is a heavily-salted and thoroughly-fried shell of breading.

What’s wrong with Taco Bell? For a Mexican restaurant, they are surprisingly short on taste. A bland Englishwolf in Mexisheep clothing. Cheese made out of plastic and crude oil. You’re eating Legos with hot sauce.

What’s wrong with Applebee’s? Salt Country. Ninety-nine percent of the taste is pure salt. Ever take a bite out of a salt brick? They have wonderfully disguised ones here.

What’s wrong with Price Chopper? They must be producing Mayonnaise on-site in order to slather it out so generously (pfft) on each slice of bread. An unauthorized trespassing adventure is all but guaranteed to uncover a large, unsightly behemoth giving birth every second to lakes of Mayonnaise. Probably illegally.

All of the aforementioned venues have one grave sin in common: hiding a lack of taste with the cheapest cover available. With such awful food, can there be any wonder why there is such murder and crime in Prison Town? A normally confused and senile old man once tried to ponder with wonder on this for a moment, but couldn’t. No, even to him it was abundantly clear that the food was a major contributor to the Prison in Prison Town.

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ACT THREE: NO REST FOR THE WEARY

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And now we get to the Unyielding Insistence.

It was last Friday and I thought to myself, “This could be a holiday from Legos, salt bricks, and internally-felt boxing blows.” Striking a praiseworthy balance between health and taste buds and camaraderie, I set off to home for a peanut-butter and jelly bagel.

On the drive back to my apartment, a call came from B’hab over the cell phone. It went a little something like this:

B’hab: “Want to go to lunch?”

Warren: “No, sorry, already heading home. Going to have lunch there.”

B’hab: “Blubba blubba blubba.”

Warren: “What?”

B’hab: “Blubba blubba blubba.”

“Warren: “…”

B’hab: “Warren?”

Warren: “Yeah?”

B’hab: “Blubba blubba blubba.”

Warren: “What?”

B’hab: “Blubba blubba blubba.”

Warren: “… Uh… all right. Can’t hear what you’re saying. I’ll see you guys on Wednesday for lunch. I’m out for today.”

B’hab: “We’re going to come over to your house.”

Warren [incredulous, half-laughing]: “Yeah, whatever. See you guys Wednesday. Later.”

Whether it was B’hab’s savagely-weathered Verizon Chocolate phone or B’hab’s speed talking, the back-handed man’s voice was quite hard to make out over the cell phone.

As I took a bite into the scrumptious bagel back at my apartment, the buzzer rang. Someone was at the door, meaning not to relent.

Warren: “You’ve got to be kidding me… Can I not escape lunch once? I’ve already declined over the phone.”

Once the buzzer stopped buzzing, a crowd of foot-stomps were heard trampling up the stairs. An unsuspecting neighbor (read: victim) had apparently been tricked into letting the Lunchtatorship Party members in.

Then came the insistent rappings upon my door. The Lunchtatorship Party members could not permit me one transgression against their multiple and many missings of lunch. Between myself and a trio of angry lunchers was but a mere inch of cheap wood. The tranquil apartment had suddenly taken on marked tinges of a dorm room, which is what it was under its previous occupant.

Warren: “Don’t worry, peanut-butter and jelly bagel; I’ll handle this.”

Thus I opened the door and craned my neck out.

Warren: “Hey, is the lock downstairs broken or something?”

B’hab: “Oh, hah – he wasn’t going to answer the buzzer!”

Warren: “Yeah…”

Benenate: “Come on, Warren, come to lunch!”

Warren: “No, thanks. I’ll be back to lunch on Wednesday. I’m already all set here.”

In an attempt at extending the in of the barge, B’hab poked his head through the opening where Warren’s arms were not.

B’hab: “Wow, that’s a nice television there!”

Warren: “Yes, it’s nice. So you guys are heading to lunch? I’ll see you back at work.”

Giant Jackpot: “Are you sure, Warren? Delicious, delicious Price Chopper awaits!”

Warren [patiently, tiredly]: “No, thank you, I’m set as it is.”

Benenate: “All-l-l-l-l right.”

Off they went to fill their tummies with Legos, salt bricks, and internally-felt boxing blows.

Bagel: “Can you believe it? What irony: they often miss lunch and they love the food, yet you can never miss lunch and you barely tolerate the food. What gives, Warren G.?”

Warren: “You are as insightful as you are delicious.”

[chomp]