From The Vault: Jesus, Bunnies & Psychedelic Eyeballs...The Traditional Tale Of The First Easter

That's right, by popular demand, here is the story of the first Easter,fresh from the Sandwich Flats Vault, located in a top secret facility somewhere on this big green ball we call Earth..

...I hope everybody is having a nice Easter, and for those of you who do not celebrate Easter, I hope you are having a good day of thinking about why you have chosen to go straight to hell...I'm kidding, I'm kidding

Today is Easter Sunday, the day that Catholics and Christians alike celebrate Jesus driving the bunnies out of Ireland...Of course you all know that the colorfully decorated or "dyed" eggs that we hide from the children as a fun and loud and messy game nowadays all started as a method for Jesus to rid Ireland of bunnies, as the bunnies were ruining the potato crop, and knocking over whiskey bottles and pints of Guinness, those furry, twitchy nosed little bastards !! Sorry, I lost my head there for a moment...But where was I ? Oh yes, Jesus driving the bunnies out with colorfully dyed eggs....It's a little known fact that bunnies eyes work as prisms...Light enters their iris', and just refracts all over the god-damned place, it's like rabbits are continually tripping on one of those"'psychedelic drugs" that those smelly bearded types are so fond of, you know the ones I'm talking about...But Jesus figured out that if you scattered brightly decorated eggs all over Ireland, the bunnies would see them, and the overdose of refracted light would temporarily stun the bunnies, and then they could be stuffed in sacks to be thrown into the River Shannon, and then families gathered at the river Shannon to scoop out the sacks as they floated by and all of Ireland had boiled(of course) rabbit for dinner...

So that's the story of the first Easter...Of course nowadays it's all about jelly beans and chocolate and we gather the eggs from the fields rather than the stunned bunnies, and there is some sort of vague religious celebration attached to it, but it all started with renegade bunnies, and a hippie taking advantage of their psychedelic eyeballs...Happy Easter everyone !!!

From The Vault: "Can't Sleep"

What was that ? That noise. What is that noise ? oh, it's the electricity running to the alarm clock. I've never noticed that it was so loud. It sounds like a god-damned power station! Or one of those devices that were always in the old mad scientist movies. How could I buy something that makes so much damn noise ? What was I thinking ? What am I thinking now ?

Why can't I sleep ? Is a couple of hours of sleep that much to ask ? Is it really ? I'm not that demanding a guy. I just want to sleep.

Who's there ? Is that someone...Or something over there in the corner? That's ridiculous, there couldn't be anyone in the corner...Could there? It certainly looks like someone is in the corner. perhaps if I didn't have an alarm clock that sounds like a nuclear reactor, i might be able to hear them breathing or something. Maybe I should walk over there and...Wait a minute,what the hell am I thinking ?I'm not walking over there. Listen to me, over there. It's like eleven feet. I don't know that eleven feet even qualifies as "over there". I think there might be some sort of minimum distance requirement for something being "over there". I don't really know, but I do know that I ain't making a whole lotta sense.

What the hell is that now ? I do not remember having a huge hulking mass in that corner when I went to bed. In fact, I do not recall having a hulking mass of any kind in the apartment. I don't even own a couch. So, even if I had been inclined to leave a hulking mass in that corner, I lack the crucial ingredient to do so. And since I have not left the apartment in over a week, I don't see how I could have procured a hulking mass.

What is it then ? There's definitely something in that corner. and I'm pretty sure I see it breathing. Shit. I doubt it's just going to stand there. it will probably wait for me to fall asleep, and then it will tear my throat out, or some such thing, that it will probably enjoy, and I will enjoy significantly less.

This is ridiculous. I am going to turn on the light and see what the hell is lurking in the corner. here we go....Turning on the light...One...two...three...

Oh, it's just a pile of dirty clothes on top of the dresser. Boy, they sure looked sinister in the dark, that's for sure.Boy oh boy, do I feel silly. Well, I guess I'll try to sleep, now that the threat has been neutralized. I'll just turn the light off and hit the old hay, as the kids say. there we go.

What the hell was that ? Is someone walking around in the apartment ? Who the hell is in the apartment ? 2 a.m. seems a bit late for a landlord visit. I locked the door before I went to bed. At least, I think I locked the door. what if I didn't ? Then I guess I'm fucked. Now he knows I'm in here with the light being turned on and then off again. it will probably only be seconds before he's in here, slicing and dicing me, perhaps as food for his army of dogs. Wait a minute, he or she, I should say. I don't want to appear sexist. I might be sexist, but i certainly don't want to appear as such. So, I will not jump to conclusions and assume that a man has broken into my apartment, it could have been a woman...Or some combination of the two, I suppose.

Who is in my living room? i can't even try to tell myself it's just the cat...I don't have one. So, there is no rational explanation for the sound out in the living room. At least, no rational explanation that i want to face at the moment, or ever, for that matter. I do not want to face a homicidal maniac in the living room. i don't care whether it's male,female ,or hermaphroditic, I'm not interested in meeting it.

Then what am I supposed to do ? Am I to stay in here and wait to have my head removed ? Or perhaps be disemboweled ? Can I really just sit by and allow that to happen to me ? I guess I could. After all, am I not a member of "Generation X" ? the so-called, "slacker" generation ? By definition, I am expected by society to allow things to happen around me, and not take any responsibility for anything that happens in my life, right ? If the maniac does kill me, it's just the Republicans fault, right ? Or the baby-boomers ? Aaaah, now I feel better. As long as nothing is my fault, I'm okay.

Well, "it" seems to be getting closer. it's probably only a matter of seconds until my aimless existence is over. You know, if this were a story, now would be the moment when I would suddenly realize my life's passion, find a reason to live, and defend myself against the horror on the other side of that door. unfortunately, all that comes to mind is the fact that death will stop me form a thorough enjoyment of an hour of "COPS" every night. Not exactly a dream worth fighting for, is it ?

Oh my, it's really almost over. Is this really all there is ? To blame it all on the Republicans and realize that I'll miss a true life television show ? Is that ironic? I'm really not sure...But probably not. I don't know, it seems sort of sad, yet somehow appropriate. Man, I'm tired...Maybe I'll just shut my eyes.

From The Vault: The Story of "Sandwich Flats"

Over the years, I have been asked many questions: "why is the sky blue ?" " Is that a perm ?" " are you still here ?"" can I borrow your copy of Hey Soul Classics?" "Who are you and how did you get in my house ?" "Could you step out of the car please,sir ?"...But I think the one I have been asked most often is..."What the fuck does Sandwich Flats mean ?"

Well, it's an old folk tale...Mostly handed down through the generations through the great tradition of oral storytelling...Back in the late '90's, I said, "Fuck all that oral storytelling. I can't be expected to remember all them words! Time and the demon marijuana have ravaged my brain! I shall write down the "Tale Of Sandwich Flats"! then, I will not be required to remember it!"

I went down to the local watering hole, and had Old Blind No Teeth McGavin tell me the story of the Flats, which I recorded with my handy dandy tape recorder, and then spent several hundred hours transcribing. But, now it was saved for all posterity!

Until I lost the written version. Oops. And for the last several trips out west, attempting to find anyone who could tell the tale, but they were all gone. Old Blind No Teeth McGavin had disappeared. Al "Blinky" Bevington had joined up with the Circus, and was out on the road. Phil "Fingers" McGee had not been seen since he fondled the fiancee of a local crime boss. The whole gang was gone. The Tale Of Sandwich Flats was lost. Lost forever...

Or until Sunday, the 12th of October, 2008. I was searching through a box of old writings and such, and I came across my original handwritten copy of the tale, as well as the typed copy I had made as a "backup". all those prayers had been answered! I like to think that maybe it was the soul of "Fingers", that guided it back to me..I did feel a bit of a phantom tickle on my ass as I found the paper in the box. A sign form beyond the grave ? Perhaps...Perhaps not. But enough of all that...I now give to you...

The Tale of Sandwich Flats

It all started with a man that went by the name Timothy Dimes. It was the name his Mom and Pop gave him, and it was the name that he kept. Timothy was, by most accounts and in most ways, and unremarkable man. He was of average height and weight. He was not handsome, but certainly not ugly.He had a mid sized home, a mid-sized car, and a mid-sized dog(named Spot, of course). He was married to an average looking woman, and they had two average children, a boy and a girl, naturally.

There was, however, one thing in Timothy's life that was above average. Did I say above average? I meant WELL above average. Hell, it was stupendous! It was splendiferous! It was spectacular! Are you simply breathless with anticipation now ? Can you barely contain yourself waiting to find out what this spectacular thing is ?

Wait no more...It was his ability to make a sandwich. Now, you might scoff, but it's true. His sandwiches were out of this world, or "off the hook", as the kids these days say. people came from miles around, other countries even, for as taste, or even just a glimpse of one of his sandwiches. he made all kinds- Turkey & Swiss on a roll, Ham & Cheddar, Corned Beef on rye, BLT's, vegetarian hoagies...You name it, he could make it. And make it better than any sandwich you ever had.

On top of being able to make kickass traditional sandwiches, Timothy also had a knack for making absolutely delicious sandwiches out of a seemingly horrible combination of ingredients. hell, i once tasted a sandwich he created out of seven grain bread, soy sauce,beef tongue, tarragon, sliced olives and eggplant...It was absolutely delicious!!! I swear to you, it was one of the finest sandwiches I have ever eaten. I don't know how, but the guy did it. It was remarkable!

I'm sure that you folks think that Mr. Dimes made millions of dollars from these culinary gifts he possessed, right ? Well, that would certainly be the "Hollywood movie, People magazine feature, Feel-good" ending to the tale. But it would also be a flat out lie.

Like all geniuses(or is it geniusi? No matter, really), Timothy Dimes was a bit peculiar about his talents.He staunchly refused to sell his sandwiches on the open market. he never had his own Food Network show. No cook books. He felt that it would be a corruption of his talents.He was not averse, however, to winning a twenty dollar bet here and there when someone would bet him that he could not make a delicious sandwich out of ingredients they chose for him.(No one can ever remember him losing a single one of those bets.) But he would NOT sell sandwiches.

From time to time, his exploits would reach the ears of someone like Anton Subway or Jeffrey Von Blimpie, who would stop by and persuade him to enter the chain deli business. Timothy would politely turn them away, with a sandwich for the road, of course.He was content to make sandwiches for his friends and family, and perhaps the occasional passerby, and win enough bets to keep himself in meats and condiments.He was a man of particular principles, that's for sure.

As you may have guessed, Timothy lived in the apartment that is now known as "Sandwich Flats". He made most of his sandwiches there, and crowds would gather there, to watch him work, and perhaps score a taste of one of his sandwiches.

The name "Sandwich Flats" evolved over time. at first, people would say they were going to try and find "that Sandwich Guy's Place". later, a young hipster called it the "Sandwich Hut", and that name seemed to stick for a short while, but it never seemed quite right. Finally, in the late '70's, a man by the name of Chris Weston, who was at the time a roadie for a band called "The Discotastic", asked his cousin when they were going to visit that "Sandwich Flat" he had heard so much about. Someone relayed the phrase to Timothy, and being a rather large Steinbeck fan, he fell in love with it. From that moment on, the apartment was known as "Sandwich Flats"(Incidentally, when he did visit, Mr. Weston had a Roast Beef & Brie on pumpernickel. He described the sandwich as "Sandwich-o-tastic!")

And there you have it, Crimestoppers, the long lost Tale of Sandwich Flats.