Kafka's Deli

Occasionally for lunch I stop in at the Subway around the corner from work, where the following exchange invariably takes place:

"May I help you, sir?"

"Yes, I'll have the six-inch steak & cheese on Italian. Toasted, please."

"What kind of bread?"

"Italian."

"What size would you like?"

"Six-inch."

"Would you like that toasted?"

"Uhh... yes."

Such a small thing - a tale to mildly amuse your co-workers with - and yet, rather despairing on reflection. Perhaps the job is so unfathomably dreary that all the hapless drone behind the counter can do to cling to the frayed remnants of his sanity is adhere to a little Madlibs script in his head, and all information received out of sequence is promptly rejected. White noise goes in the white trash. Stick to the script. Blinders in place. Fit the square peg into the square hole, fit the round peg into the round hole. Repeat, repeat, repeat. When you are dead the square box will be lowered into the square hole in the small round earth, and your offspring will be propped up to take your place at the wheel.

Or, on the other hand, maybe he's just a dumbass.