My Internal Monologue While Eating a Meatball Sub

I guess I’ll start with the obvious question: Baby, where have you been all my life?  You don’t have to answer.  All that matters is that you’re here right now.

Something smells good.  I wonder what that is?  I’m only kidding.  I know what smells so good, and it’s you.  My meatball sub.  Can I just say, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, it looks like you’ve put on a little marinara since the last time I saw you.

Meatball Sub, we couldn’t be more different.  I’m a young man, and you, well, you’re a big sloppy sandwich.  Maybe one of the sloppiest.  Yet I’m drawn to you.  I guess opposites really do attract.

Do you know how often I defend you, Meatball Sub?  People dismiss you as bar food.  Greasy, cheap, trashy.  Meatball Sub, these are things other people say, not me.  I can see what makes you great.  I’ll level with you, MBS, I don’t always order you, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t smile every time I see your name on the menu.

I believe Albert Einstein said it best when he explained relativity: “Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour.  Put your hand on a hot meatball sub for an hour, and it seems like a minute.”  The man knew his stuff.

M-Ball…is it alright if I call you M-Ball?  M-Ball, I would love you even if you weren’t toasted, but the fact that you are toasted makes me love you even more.

Oh. My. God.

Garlic Sourdough?  What are you doing to me?   Meatball Sub, biting into that crisp, buttery bread is like getting punched in the face by Angelina Jolie’s lips.  I literally black out.  I’m jolted back to consciousness by the sweet, tangy bite of the sauce.  My tongue feels like Carrie at the end of the 1976 film Carrie, only instead of pig’s blood it’s covered in hot, velvety marinara.

Knock, knock.  Who’s there?  Oh holy shit, it’s fresh, whole milk mozzarella.  Of course you can come in, but only if you do a little dance on my tongue first.

Now it’s time for the guest of honor.  The meatball.  Meatball Sub, feeling my teeth sink into the tender flesh of your meatballs is like chewing on a cloud.  Except instead of being composed of water particles, it’s composed primarily of ground beef with maybe a little bit of pork mixed in, some bread crumbs, oregano, and probably an egg to help bind it all together.  It’s like biting into that kind of cloud.

Meatball Sub, I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave.  I’ve got to say, that did not feel like three hours, but I guess time flies when you’re savoring a warm, juicy Meat-B Sammy.  This all might seem a little over dramatic to you, Meatball Sub, but I believe it was Plato who said, “At the touch of a meatball sub, everyone becomes a poet.”


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