So I’m at the Subway here in Limon (what’s it say about a town when the best dining is all fast food?). There’s a long line, and I’m behind a family. The guy’s tall, kind of pudgy, weak chin, and dressed like middle-aged people do when they’re trying to look young. He’s wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, tucked into a tight pair of shorts.

And the BO coming off this guy- HOO BOY. Eye-watering stink. And I’m thinking to myself, while the line slowly makes its way to the front, how do people in Europe do it? How do they eat in restaurants if people don’t bathe regularly? Maybe that’s why fast food isn’t as popular there- nobody wants to stand in line and smell each other while they’re waiting for food.

Anyway, we get to the front of the line. The girl behind the counter (black lipstick and a dog collar, by the way) asks him what he wants. And he says,

“I’d like ze fut-long Italienne with…”

That’s right, he’s French. I couldn’t make up stuff this good.

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