The following prose is inspired by interviews with and commentary from Mike Triforce and is posted with his infered blessing and endorsement.  This in no way reflects my own thoughts and feelings. Thanks for your support during my rough patch asshole.

I make my own sandwhich
It happens – like laundry or other minutaie
But as I search for pickles the magnitude of it hits me
What wonders will the world never see
 - or see hundreds of years later
 - because Einstein on some random day
 - had to make his own sandwhich

So yes Princess it could be the end of the world
I could be writing a song
Or rehearsing a part
Or trying to figure out exactly how much I can charge this chump client before he starts raising red flags

You who stink of the mold that gets into cardboard crates at cheap establishments where surplus and low quality booze go to find a home have the audacity to say I am not working because my timesheet is a lie. The sudslinger tells the lawyer lying is not work! This is stressful. Clients read bills now.

And of what you? Where is your timesheet? Oh that’s right, you get paid under the table to avoid taxes and forfeit your state benefits. If your skin were but a few shades darker you’d be spat upon for such a transgression but as it stands you heartily agree with drunks who advocate sending them all home… for a tip and so you have someone to feel better than.

So I say again make me a sandwhich extra pickles. Then get down on your knees and have a pickle of your own.