The Subway Code
The grammar of glances on a subway train? Feigned indifference? Cynosure for play? Perhaps...
But what I had in mind was more hygienic, morally speaking. Jared's Foster Home. That's right, fresher is better. I should warn you - what I'm going to say now will shock you profoundly. But in the final analysis it's good for you, you need to have it:
The eponymous sandwich chain is merely the front of a vast conspiracy in which a nebulous matermind is, slowly but steadily, assisted by an army of eager minions, gaining control of the minds, and more significantly, the appetites of the American public.
If you're a smart-aleck, you'll make some quip about late capitalism and how I'm belaboring the obvious. You with your fancy theories, go and get a life, will ya? We're living in the real world here, and I'm a straight talker.This is all very serious. Mine is now a face without a grin. I mean it literally .
Guys, this beggars belief, I tell you... It's an operation on a massive scale. Humongous. Even the sandwiches can't compare.
How did I suspect? It was quite simple and logical, really, thinking back to it. Those sandwich guys count on you coming to the stall to eat. Eat, spout cash, and leave. Nothing more. But I, I use my brain wherever I go. Can't help it, that's just who I am. And I got to thinking...
What's with all the choices anyway? I'm sure there have been times when you've felt frustrated, or overwhelmed. Or maybe you just know your favorite combo, and you don't trouble yourself about it any more? Either way, doesn't it feel strange to you that they have stuff like banana peppers and roasted tarragon bread that no-one in their right mind would try? Such a waste, but just another instance of capitalistic excess, right? Or too boring to be worth bothering about?
Questions, questions. I submit to you that the czars of the sandwich industry aren't stupid, that in fact that every ingredient, every condiment, every sequence of choices carries meaning. By my calculations, there are 12,784 different sandwiches one could order. Fine, but then a sandwich order is such a simple thing, where's the harm in it? And a sandwich consumer is a simple, virtually anonymous being, but not simpler or more anonymous than the uniformed functionaries behind the counter...
Oh, the genius of it. The devilish steganographic genius of it. When I first saw it, I couldn't quite believe it. I denied it, just as you do now (oh, yes, gentle reader, I see right through you too!). Combinatorics, that slurred and inexact sport. Seurat with his colored dots, then dandy Warhol... Art must yield to money. I could not rest until I saw my doubts confirmed.
I dedicated myself to study. Suspicion and study - the study of suspicion. Suspicious study, at sandwich stalls and in my study.
This is all rather vague and confusing. You didn't think I was one of those nutty conspiracy theorists, did you? I have proof, I have proof positive. I camped out at an outlet yesterday, and those thousands of hours spent in rigorous observation and analysis of sandwich orders (all the while pretending to be a sandwich addict, me of all people...) bore sudden fruit before my startled eyes. I read a message (no cherry-picking, promise), there was no mistaking it."They're on to us. We must act now." Wow, these guys are paranoid! Do they never stop to think whether lives like theirs worth living? Anyway, as to how the message was conveyed...
Where am I? Who wrote this? Oh, well, who the fuck cares, life is meant to be lived... I'm gonna go out, get some fresh air, and I think I'll need a Subway sandwich soon.
But what I had in mind was more hygienic, morally speaking. Jared's Foster Home. That's right, fresher is better. I should warn you - what I'm going to say now will shock you profoundly. But in the final analysis it's good for you, you need to have it:
The eponymous sandwich chain is merely the front of a vast conspiracy in which a nebulous matermind is, slowly but steadily, assisted by an army of eager minions, gaining control of the minds, and more significantly, the appetites of the American public.
If you're a smart-aleck, you'll make some quip about late capitalism and how I'm belaboring the obvious. You with your fancy theories, go and get a life, will ya? We're living in the real world here, and I'm a straight talker.This is all very serious. Mine is now a face without a grin. I mean it literally .
Guys, this beggars belief, I tell you... It's an operation on a massive scale. Humongous. Even the sandwiches can't compare.
How did I suspect? It was quite simple and logical, really, thinking back to it. Those sandwich guys count on you coming to the stall to eat. Eat, spout cash, and leave. Nothing more. But I, I use my brain wherever I go. Can't help it, that's just who I am. And I got to thinking...
What's with all the choices anyway? I'm sure there have been times when you've felt frustrated, or overwhelmed. Or maybe you just know your favorite combo, and you don't trouble yourself about it any more? Either way, doesn't it feel strange to you that they have stuff like banana peppers and roasted tarragon bread that no-one in their right mind would try? Such a waste, but just another instance of capitalistic excess, right? Or too boring to be worth bothering about?
Questions, questions. I submit to you that the czars of the sandwich industry aren't stupid, that in fact that every ingredient, every condiment, every sequence of choices carries meaning. By my calculations, there are 12,784 different sandwiches one could order. Fine, but then a sandwich order is such a simple thing, where's the harm in it? And a sandwich consumer is a simple, virtually anonymous being, but not simpler or more anonymous than the uniformed functionaries behind the counter...
Oh, the genius of it. The devilish steganographic genius of it. When I first saw it, I couldn't quite believe it. I denied it, just as you do now (oh, yes, gentle reader, I see right through you too!). Combinatorics, that slurred and inexact sport. Seurat with his colored dots, then dandy Warhol... Art must yield to money. I could not rest until I saw my doubts confirmed.
I dedicated myself to study. Suspicion and study - the study of suspicion. Suspicious study, at sandwich stalls and in my study.
This is all rather vague and confusing. You didn't think I was one of those nutty conspiracy theorists, did you? I have proof, I have proof positive. I camped out at an outlet yesterday, and those thousands of hours spent in rigorous observation and analysis of sandwich orders (all the while pretending to be a sandwich addict, me of all people...) bore sudden fruit before my startled eyes. I read a message (no cherry-picking, promise), there was no mistaking it."They're on to us. We must act now." Wow, these guys are paranoid! Do they never stop to think whether lives like theirs worth living? Anyway, as to how the message was conveyed...
Where am I? Who wrote this? Oh, well, who the fuck cares, life is meant to be lived... I'm gonna go out, get some fresh air, and I think I'll need a Subway sandwich soon.
posted by Cheshire Cat at 11:48 PM
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