The Subway Diet

July 14, 2005 at 11:53 am (Daily Dookie, Pop Culture on Parade, Rant Goodness)

I was subjected to those stupid-assed Subway ads again–the ones where Jared bitches about what lovely things places like Mickey D's does to chicken. He's so smug in these commercials that it bugs the batshit out of me.

"You know what fries me? It's what does to chicken. They deep fry it and add fat to a very healthy food!"

Oh, yeah, Jared, I'm SO fucking sure you're all mad and shit about what they do! Don't think you're fooling anyone when you're shilling for another fast fud empire–I know what you're really doing there, you sanctimonious bastard.

While you're bitching and moaning on national television for the sake of a dime, you've got those two aides of yours (you know the ones, the guys you say help you LOSE weight eating cold cuts twice a day) out preparing your hookup.

Oh, fuck you Jared, don't look at me like you're innocent! You know as well as I do that you have those two out in trenchcoats and sunglasses, scavenging the very places you're paid to put down, buying your daily fix for you. You're too well-known thanks to running your fugly face all over the airwaves to go get a decently prepared bucket of chicken yourself, so you flagellate those poor employees of yours into doing it for you.

I see them now, Oh Asinine One–I see one over at KFC, asking if he can have extra honey barbeque sauce on "his" box of whatever chickeny goodness they're scoring for you now. The other one's in the drive-thru at Mac and Don's Supper Club, the very bastion of hellaciously bad-fer-ya fud, demanding double sauce for the Chicken McNoogies and extra mayo on the 10 sammitches he's scoring for you.

I do wonder how they actually make the handoff to you. I'm certain the paparazzi know where your office and home are, and likely have them staked out. But I know you, Jared. You're the fat guy trapped in a skinny dude's body, so you gotta have your fix, any way they can give it to you.

Do they stand on the street corner near your gym, London Fog coats billowing in the wind, flashing wafting goodness in scent form down the street as a signal to you? Or do you meet up with them in a seedy hotel, as if they were regular, honest whores instead of your kept men? Do you make them call you Big Daddy before you pay them back for the food they scored? Or do you just snatch the greasy goodness from their slippery fingers before backhanding them out of the way of your orgy of sin?

Whatever it is you do, Jared, I know what you don't do. I know you don't pay those poor fuckers enough to deal with your sorry ass. There isn't enough money on the planet to reward them for what they do for you.

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