We had Arby’s for dinner tonight. And I wondered – as I always do when I’m eating Arby’s – if perchance someone had jizzed in the horsey sauce.
That bothers me.
But not enough to not eat there. Occasionally, Reader. Not all the time. I don’t like a jizzy roastbeef sammy all the time.
I mentioned my jizz-in-the-sauce concerns to My Mister.
He looked at me with “what the fuck?” eyes.
And then I continued to spread the jizzy sauce on my bun and idly comment, “Well, it’s not like I’ve never had jizz in my mouth before, so I guess what’s the big deal.”
He informed me I was pretty fucked up.
And then we both dipped our curly fries in the potentially-jizzy sauced and continued with our Friday night date night dinner.
And I’m sorry for that.
**The Arby’s by our house has two giant bells and you can tug on the rope and ring them loudly if you’ve had great customer service. I cannot resist ringing the hell out of that bell on my way out. Tonight I rang it so enthusiastically I think I went a little deaf in my left ear. I wanted to thank them immensely even if I did have a jizzy sandwich. Because I probably didn’t. Probably.