“Excuse me, waitress…? Just what was it, exactly, that you didn’t understand about my request for NO FUCKING MAYONNAISE ON MY TURKEY FUCKING SANDWICH?”
~the end~
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Too wordy.
Turkey fucking a sandwich? I’d pay to see that.
Mayonnaise. Rats.
Any way you could edit it to maybe shorten it up a little. My mind wandered after the first couple of words. Plot’s pretty good though.
You go Willard!
You watching “The Whole Nine Yards” again?
“I’m gonna keep the Coke and the fries but I’m gonna send this burger back. And if you put any mayonnaise on it, I’m gonna come over to your house and chop your legs off, set your house on fire and watch as you drag your bloody stumps out of your house. Okay?”
Without mayo, is it truly a sandwich?
Waitress: “Sir, that’s not mayonnaise, it’s spit. Bon appetit.”
“Mayonnaise. Rats.” Very appropriate for a Willard.
I’m with Dave. Without mayo it’s turkey and bread. The waitresses in the places I eat (all of whom can, and many have, kicked my ass) would reply with “If you wanted turkey and bread, you should have ordered turkey and bread, now eat your sandwich quietly or I’ll kick your ass up between your ears and ruin your appetite in the process!”
It’ll never sell.
Not enough development of Willard’s true inner gay self.
And the mayo and meat? C’mon. Cheap symbolism. We know what that’s about.
Not to get all snotty and stuff, but I sort of expected better.
A fine example of spare, yet muscular, prose.
Nearby customer: “Pardon me, Sir, but would you have any Grey Poupon?”
Willard: “Ya want Grey Poupon? I gotcher Grey Poupon here, Gramps! (grabs dollop of mayo from his own sandwich, pisses on it, places dollop of urine-impregnated mayo on Gramps’ forehead) Any other requests?”