The True Tumultuous Tales of the Meatball Man: Vol. 1- The Subway Sage (Part 2)

I was that tanned fellow. I travelled from a distant land, that most would call ‘Milton Keynes’, famed for Fishermead and abnormally high teenage pregnancy. It took me 7 hours to get to Cottingham, East Yorkshire, England. I had to brave a coach journey through Sheffield to be here. Anyone who has ever set foot in Sheffield understands the sacrifice one must take to endure such a journey. The people (much like the buildings), were filthy, run down, poor at holding a conversation and had a different person in them every other night. Why endure the brain cell killing voyage from Milton Keynes to Cottingham, East Yorkshire, England, via Sheffield? Meatballs. You heard me. Meatballs. Pure ecstasy in ball form, covered in mouth-watering, seizure-inducing tomato sauce, gently laid in bread and cheese that was more foreign than I am. Where was this godly sandwich, that (probably) ended wars sold? Subway. The only thing in between me and a sandwich so eye-numbingly perfect that I had to wear two pairs of trousers, were a few of the native Caucasians.

They were so white I can almost smell the Starbucks, sense their inability to comprehend cultures outside their tiny island and see that they ‘can’t even’. Eventually, it was my turn to be served. So there I was. Penis erect. Salivating. After enduring 7 hours and Sheffield, it was finally my time. I’ve been rehearsing my order in front of a mirror for roughly 5 decades now. As soon as I was asked, the all important question, “may I take your order?” I sprung into action. Like a well-oiled machine, I asked for a footlong Meatball Marinara. Things were looking great, I spoke my lines with brilliant diction, there was no need to repeat my order and I was only semi-erect. But then, my meatball shaped world came to a halt. What? Why would it take 5 minutes to cook the meatballs? After what was clearly a hate crime, I composed myself. No longer erect, I asked for Italian B.M.T. But before the words rolled off my tongue, I heard a loud grunt behind. At this point, I believe it’s best to clarify some things. A lot of people claim to have guardians. But none could say that they have seen theirs. But I can. I didn’t believe that these mythical beings existed, yet here I was listening to the grunt of mine. “What do you mean you don’t have any meatballs?” he exclaimed. He pushed in front of me in the line and locked eyes with the managers. He was wearing a grey Adidas Jumper and a black Adidas Tracksuit bottom. His accent, though northern sounding, had more than a hint of chavviness. The manager calmly explained that they had to cook the meatballs to the right temperature otherwise we would all die from salmonella. But nothing was deterring my guardian angel. “I know a manager who got fired for cooking meatballs!” he exclaimed like he was some sort of lawyer. Confused, the manager asked to explain what he meant. Suddenly he rapid fires, what feels like, 1000 words in about 2 seconds. Dazed, the manager asked him to repeat himself but slowly. If anything, he went faster the second time around. How could one man say so much in so little time? About meatballs of all things. Before any of us could process what happened, he disappeared. In tears, I finished my sub, as a changed man.

-BP, RevCol Guest Editor and (alleged) Meatball Man witness.

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