Cheese.

I am having a joyous day here on the the 22nd floor. I decided it was time to go get some food at about 12:14 PM. I got on the elevator and hit the "1" button. It stopped at the eighteenth floor and someone got on.

He hit the "17" button.

While he completed the arduous task of pressing that button, I noticed that he owned a pair of fully-functioning legs.

After cock-punching this douchebox for taking away 13 seconds of my life, I walked across the street to the Subway. The following is an actual exchange I saw between a Subway patron and a Subway employee:

Sandwich artist: "Cheese?"
Sandwich eater: "Yes, havarti, please."
Sandwich artist: "This is fucking Subway, not Fancy Cheese Town."

Okay, she didn't say that. But it would have been way cooler if she did. All she said was the standard: "We don't have havarti."

Seriously. Havarti. In what bizarro universe would you expect a place like Subway to offer havarti as a cheese option? It doesn't hurt to ask, I guess. The next time I'm in there and the guy says: "cheese?" I'm going to say "cottage." I wonder what kind of confusion that will induce. Yes, I did steal that from Mitch Hedberg.

I lied about cock-punching the one-floor elevator taker. I just cock-punched him in my mind. I assume I have been the subject of many a mind-cock-punching throughout the years.

I had a six-inch grilled chicken on wheat with jalapenos and mustard.