Why Sex Is Pure Bologne



Here’s the thing about sex…

Sex is like the best sandwich you’ve ever eaten. But the sandwich shop is WAY across town through horrible traffic. With lots of tolls. And it takes hours to get there and back

A few times you’ve tried to make the trip, and then just had to say “Is this really worth it?” and head home with no sandwich.

And the owner is so friendly to you one day. But he stops speaking to you the next day — with no explanation. When you ask his brother, the manager what’s up, he replies, “Really? Don’t act like you don’t know!”

And sometimes you pay for a sandwich, and the owner says he wants to make one for a customer who knows how to appreciate him.

And one day you show up at the shop and the owner’s best friend looks at you and giggles and says “Ordering the five-inch, Dave?”

Sometimes you wake up thinking about that sandwich. Then you think about the trip and the owner and say, “No way.” So you make your own sandwich… in the shower.

And there are times the owner meets you in front of the shop all angry and is like “Really? The only time I see your face is when you want a fucking sandwich.”

And sometimes you order a sandwich, and after waiting 20 minutes, the owner’s like “Ohh, Mr. Important wants me to make him a sandwich. Sometimes I’m hungry, too, you know!”

So you take the owner out for Chinese. He gives you the silent treatment. You drop him back at the shop, and he offers to make you a sandwich, but only if you sleep over (?!) When you decline, he says “Thanks for a lovely evening” all sarcastically.

Out of nowhere, he posts on his Facebook wall that he’s your exclusive caterer.

One day, confusingly, he says, “Don’t expect any sort of special sandwich just because it’s your birthday. Jesus!”

All of this is to say — even the best sandwiches are a pain in the fucking ass.

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