43 Sandwiches Short of a Picnic

300 Sandwiches lady gets surprise proposal from her boyfriend after ONLY making him 257 sandwiches. WFT?

Remember that girl? Yes, I wrote about her here. And also here, when Twitter got all hilarious on her arse.

I’ve basically lost faith in everything, including wearing someone down with sandwiches until they marry me. Or marrying someone who is enough of a dick to suggest that 300 sandwiches would ensure a proposal. And THEN surprise me at 257.

In the words of the Aus Fin Review’s unfortunate sub-editor: #worldisfukt


Read about it here, on Jezebel. It’s triggered an existential crisis in us all. We are told 300 sandwiches mean dreamlifeforevs. And then… Are you fucking kidding me? If I was going to make 300 sandwiches try and get a book deal by making some actually-not-good-looking-at-all-sorry-dude 300 motherfucking sandwiches (and I have TERRIBLE follow-through with something that does not have booze) then, with eyes on the prize, I’d make those goddamn 43 remaining sandwiches. In fairness I’d probably make one cheese Kraft Single in between two slices of $1 on sale white bread for 282 of them, but still…

Better women than me, from Jezebel, have expressed this better than I ever could.

“In a way, it can teach us all an important lesson about what we can control (ourselves) and cannot control (other people). And even the most steadfast and repeated promise of reward is no guarantee that a specific course of action will produce a specific outcome. Even if you take it as a given. Maybe you won’t get the job you wanted after fulfilling everything your boss asked of you. Maybe you’ll be plucked out of subway trackside singer obscurity to become a pop star. Maybe your boyfriend will propose to you after you make him something called “The Fishkiller.” Maybe he’ll break up with you after you make him a baby.

Life’s big moments happen no matter how obsessively our publicist and literary agent tries to plan them for us. And to the future Mrs. and Mr. 300 Sandwiches, I wish you the best of luck. And pray that you go away forever now. Please.”


Or, as two dear friends of mine commented:

“He’s clearly impulsive. Be careful Sandwich Girl, maybe he’s not reliable.”

“I would question the wisdom of settling down with someone who’s prepared to basically throw away 43 sandwiches.”

In conclusion, because I’m such a sadarse, I bought a sandwich for my dinner from the local inner city deli and it was Motherfucking Delicious. But also: Make me a sandwich. Cheese and ham is fine.


About ohhellwhatthehell

I like gin, mittens and otters, not necessarily in that order. Here's some stuff I felt like writing down when I'm not chained to a desk writing other things for a living. Please use caution when using this site; there may be sweary words, cute animals and general bullshit. Don't say I didn't fucking warn you.
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