So now who can I trust to pitch me a sandwich?

By Tim Tompkins, Sr.

Is it Friday yet? Because man alive it’s been quite a week. And let’s just say ol’ double-T here is ready to wave the white flag and put this one in the books.

Started on Sunday when Tim, Jr. came down with a summer cold, and then continued right on through Monday when the plumber told Irene the pipes in the downstairs bathroom had galvanized. But those were just the preambles to the whammy that came my way on Wednesday, when the man I’ve trusted to pitch me low-calorie sandwiches for nearly two decades confessed to some heinous crimes against children.

I ask you, dear reader, where do I now turn? Upon whom can I rely to recommend light meals consisting of two pieces of bread with meat or cheese or some other flavorful filling neatly placed between them?

To suggest this is a moment of crisis for your good buddy T-Tomps would be an understatement the likes of which has never before fallen upon my heretofore virgin ears. For I am now a frightened babe in the midday meal woods, wandering aimlessly in the hopes I stumble upon some sage advice pointing me in the direction of a satisfying yet low-fat nutritious sandwich.

Do I dare trust the begingered maiden who snarkily swears the Wendy’s spicy chicken sandwich will sate my high tea time hunger?

Or do I throw my better judgment to the wind and heed the curvaceous counsel of the buxom blonde of Carl’s Jr. by indulging in some all-natural grass-fed beef the next time that familiar lunchtime bell beckons?

Such is the whirlpool of harrowing hesitation your normally confident confidante T-squared finds himself circling as he desperately cries out for consultation regarding his number one noontime nibble.

Do I have the nerve to return to the scene of the crime and take an esteemed NFL insider at his meatball-marinated word? Or do I sever my sandwich chain ties and walk boldly into that whole wheat wilderness alone and afraid?

I suppose only time will tell. In the meantime, I’ll continue to hope that the next hoagie huckster who earns my trust proves worthy of my flatbread-fueled faith.

Pray for me.

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