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In an effort to boost sagging readership numbers, I have been asked to revise Monday’s entry to include more exciting content.

Given the choice between a dry, meager sandwich and the edible grease-sponges from McD’s, I usually go for the sandwich — especially when I’m falling from ten thousand feet with evil henchmen taking swipes at me with razor-sharp machetes. Sandwiches just seem to hold together better in freefall. Today, however, gnawing hunger drove me to blast into a McD’s wearing my top secret jet pack to lay my hands on one of those new “deli” sandwiches. The girl at the counter said it was better for me.

But for some reason, I felt she was lying. Maybe it was the shifty look in her eyes. Maybe it was the nervious twitch at the edge of her mouth. Or maybe it was her spastic outburst of “I’M A LYING SACK O’ CRUD AND I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!” before she crumpled into a sobbing heap on the floor. I have to keep my eyes open for these little clues.

While all eyes were on the sobbing McD’s girl, I swiped a steaming “buffalo chicken deli sandwich” and blasted off to my top secret lab, which I keep in geosynchronous orbit over the Pacific. After running the sandwich through the computer for analysis, I was utterly gobsmacked. This was no “deli sandwich”!

At first, as far as I could tell, the buffalo chicken deli sandwich is just an elongated McChicken with mildly spicy sauce on it. There was, in fact, no buffalo in it at all. And inside that, under the wilted lettuce and wedged inside a soggy crevice of processed chicken “meat” was a tiny but powerful bomb!

Grabbing the sandwich, I threw it into the airlock and pounded the emergency cycle button. The blast of decompressed blew the deadly at high speed outward into the inky blackness of space. Mere minutes later, a blinding flash enveloped my lab, followed by a shock wave that nearly tore the place apart.

I survived the ordeal, but now I’m curious what other “deli” offerings they have. Maybe they’ll have a beef and cheese “deli” sandwich that’s an elongated Big Mac… WITH A THERMONUCLEAR DEVICE!

Of course, I don’t expect any better. I just like the entertainment of discovering weapons of mass destruction buried in common food items. It’s all part of keeping the world safe from the evil gloved hand of Ronald.

Given the choice between a dry, meager sandwich and the edible grease-sponges from McD’s, I usually go for the sandwich. Today, however, I took a risk and tried one of those new “deli” sandwiches. Supposedly, it’s better for you.

For some reason, I find that hard to believe. As far as I could tell, the buffalo chicken deli sandwich is just an elongated McChicken with mildly spicy sauce on it. Same wilted lettuce. Same greasy, processed chicken “meat”, but it’s sliced up to fit inside the bun.

I’m curious what other “deli” offerings they have. Maybe they’ll have a beef and cheese “deli” sandwich that’s an elongated Big Mac.

Of course, I didn’t expect any better. I just like the entertainment of finding out just how disappointed I’ll be with my insta-meal.

It was a quiet morning, a crisp morning like many others at the cusp of September, with a slight chill that hinted at the waning summer and the slow-approaching damp of fall. Outside my kitchen window, orange dawn touched the roofs and treetops, and caused a family of seagulls to shriek vigorously at the approaching day, which startled a calico abruptly from licking itself before being chased off by the neighbour’s three-legged terrier.

Inside, in half-shadow, I stood vigil over the inert form of my beloved companion. My attempt to resuscitate had been futile. It was dead — passed beyond the veil of darkness into the endless light of the hereafter. It would forevermore remain silent and nevermore would coffee would issue from it’s warm carafe.

For seven years, we had lived in symbiosis. I would feed it coffee grounds and give it water and electricity, and in return it gifted me with the rich nectar of the Colombian mountains. It asked so little of me, and yet gave so much.

Perhaps, in the bitter clarity of hindsight, I might have demanded too much. Did I hasten its demise with too many late nights and early mornings? Had I only been more nurturing, would it still be with me today to share the pleasure of seeing another dawn? These thoughts troubled me — gnawed at me — as I stared at the now-silent form. No more would it greet me with its steamy, burbling voice and a friendly “12:00” flashing on its face.

And yet, from every end, there is a new beginning. Today I am joined by a new face — smaller, younger, and hissing with the excitement of youth. From here on, we’ll explore our new relationship, and discover new dawns and entirely different families of shrieking seagulls. From the end of an old friendship starts a new one, and its name is Black and Decker SmartBrew. Only $9.95 at Canadian Tire. Not a bad deal, really.