Uncovering the ultra high price of a Subway sandwich

Dear Guy at Subway,

Thank you for the prompt and efficient service you provided to me and my daughter during what was for you I imagine a rather busy lunch hour. You took my order, grabbed the necessary fixings and prepared my sandwich and hers with aplomb. When I asked about the seemingly exorbitant price for a child's mini-sub, you were kind enough to point out that it also came with a drink and the toy you had provided along with a stack of complimentary napkins.

I took you up on the accompanying drink and picked out a Glaceau Vitamin Water even though, unlike you, I am old enough to remember when we called this stuff Kool-Aid and, not only did it taste great, it only cost about 59 cents per rain barrel to make. My mother could make enough for the whole neighborhood in a matter of seconds, and unlike the poor schlubs in the TV commercial, we never were chased down by some creepy anthropomorphic drinking pitcher.

The toy you gave my daughter was a plastic replica of a microphone, small enough to get lost behind the couch cushions but big enough that she couldn't swallow it. This is a good thing because, seeing as how to a toddler the item looks like one big lollipop, she very well might try to put it in her mouth. On closer inspection however, I realized that the top of the microphone comes off to reveal a red felt-tip marker.

A red felt-tip marker?

Guy at Subway, what did I ever do to you? What heinous misdoing or unforgivable transgression could I have ever committed that you can now reasonably justify taking revenge on me in this way? I have a good mind never to eat in your establishment again if this is the thanks I get. I don't care how much weight Jared lost.

Have you no clue what havoc my child would reek with this weapon of mass destruction? Within a mere five minutes of my multi-tasking parental supervision otherwise known as checking email, fixing more coffee or putting poop in Dad's potty, she would deface all the wonderful goods her mother and I have worked so hard to earn the money to buy.

The tablecloth we bought in Provence would be ruined. Our high thread-count bed linens would forever have red scribbles on them. The walls I spent weeks painting would be for her a mere canvas upon which to express her angst at having such materialistic parents. Even the cat would likely not escape her pen-wielding wrath.

You appear to be a young subway guy who, judging by your late morning work schedule, either were asked to leave high school prior to graduating or perhaps you just left of your own volition. Maybe slinging the Dijon horseradish sauce was a requirement of your probation. Who knows? Regardless, I am prepared to cut you a certain amount of slack for not thinking outside the protective sneeze guard. But get a grip.

Mischievous toddlers and red marker don't mix.

Sincerely,
Kevin