So this guy, name of Todd (possibly his last name, we're not sure) comes to Firehouse (where I work, yo) just about every night for a sub. Cool, fine. Whatever. No big deal
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Heeheehee...Just like the Stargate geek in me had to refrain from chuckling a lot when I worked at Call Center Hell and got a call from a guy named Daniel Jackson.
Seriously. Every time he comes in, I start singing something from Sweeney Todd. Last night I was humming My Friends as I made his sandwich.
It gets worse, though. He got a meatball sub last night, which we run through the toaster. I had to stop myself going "'Ere we are, luv, 'ot outta the oven!"
Because our meatballs are not - I repeat, NOT - made of priest.
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It gets worse, though. He got a meatball sub last night, which we run through the toaster. I had to stop myself going "'Ere we are, luv, 'ot outta the oven!"
Because our meatballs are not - I repeat, NOT - made of priest.
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