Last night, I went out after church with Adam, Kevin, and Leroy to a lovely dining establishment called Bennigan’s. I enjoyed the company, I savored the smokey, boisterous ambiance, and I gorged myself on the Monte Cristo Sandwich.
A ham, turkey, and cheese sandwich. Deep fried. Dusted with powdered sugar. Dipped in jelly. A feast suitable for a gluttonous midieval nobleman. Well, maybe not quite that far – perhaps I could say that the Monte Cristo sandwich is a feast suitable for a corrupt, slightly inbred midieval nobleman with a wispy beard and no male offspring.
Let’s go over those elements again:
Ham, turkey, and cheese sandwich – Okay, we’re with you so far.
Deep fried – That would seem a bit excessive, but I’m willing to hear arguments on this.
Dusted with powdered sugar – Is this absolutely necessary? It would seem that a some sort of practical joke is being played on the diner at this point.
Dipped in jelly – This part is a joke, right? At this point why not just glaze the whole thing in fudge and hook the customer up to an IV of lard? Why not a side order of Turducken?
So yes, I ate the sandwich in its entireity and left shortly afterwards. I left not because of the company or the conversation; no, I left because I sensed the coming of a bowel movement of extraordinary power and volume. The further events of that evening are best left to another blog entry, but suffice to say that the noises emanating from my bathroom that evening sounded as if they were escaping from the depths of perdition.
Do I regret any of this? My friends, I most certainly do not. Will I regret detailing these events for all to read in perpetuity? It is very likely that I will. But there is no turning back. Yes, I ate the sandwich meant more for ogre than man, and yes it caused over two quarts of sweat, blood, and feces to hasten out of my body, but it was worth it.
Save my seat for tomorrow night, Bennigan’s. I have unfinished business to tend to with you.