I knew he was a D-Bag when I approached the counter. The collar on his Subway ("Eat Fresh!") uniform was popped, as if he was trying to say, "My shirt is having an erection from touching my skin." He had his work hat tipped at an angle that seemed random, but one he probably spent 4 hours in front of the mirror calculating, while snapping his fingers at his reflection.
I watched as he attempted to hit on his coworker who was like, twice his age. "That's a dirty sub," he commented, trying to catch her eye as she steadfastly ignored him, a vein twitching in her temple. "You're wrapping it wrong," he continued, using the tried-and-true kindergarten method of "Annoy her, like, shove a frog down her dress, and if she cries it means she likes you."
A bitter feeling rose up my body as I suppressed the urge to vomit all over the counter. I tried not to meet his gaze, but I could still feel his D-stare piercing the top of my head. "Yo man," he said lazily, which provoked my mouth into foaming like a rabid dog. I quickly looked up with wide eyes, trying in vain to crack the blank, dead look in his eyes, the eyes of a man who spends too much money on hair gel and drives a 'pimped-out' Honda Civic. This is coming from me, someone who recognizes that his entire racial identity revolves around driving dressed-up shitty cars.
I handed over my debit card with the tip of my fingers, afraid that, like a virus, the D-Bagatitis would jump from his skin and colonize my body, turning me into a shambling wreck of a man who only buys pink, undersized clothes from American Eagle. Unfortunately, he seemed unable to work the machine, an obvious display of technological ineptitude and general incompetence. It took a good minute before the card was eventually returned to me.
As I turned to leave, he said, "See you next week, or whatever." See me next week?! I've never seen the guy before, and I go to Subway once every two months, if ever; so the inanity of that statement popped three blood vessels in my brain, a very important factor since I have an exam tomorrow. I could only assume he had mistaken me for every other Chinese person on the planet. I spun around, rage in my eyes, and leaped onto the counter with my teeth bared. I grabbed a pile of hot peppers and threw them into his face, and as the capsaicin burned his eyes out, I maniacally pelted him with pieces of steaming bacon.
Eventually, he dropped to the ground, covering in crumbled pieces of cookie and potato chips. His collar had wilted from the constant barrage of deli meats, and his sculpted hair had been completely destroyed by a well-placed shot of sweet onion sauce. Triumphantly, I punched my fist into the air, screaming, "LIBERATED PEOPLE! REJOICE, FOR D-BAGGERY IS NO MORE! YOU ARE FREEEEEEEE!!!" before running breakneck out of the sandwich shop, dodging the terrified stares of the other customers.
On the way back to school, I saw a girl across the street in a horribly orange tan, wearing sandals with socks. My mouth began to foam. Oh, the pathos.
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