All the poor kid wanted was a sandwich. A pretty simple wish if you ask me, couple slices of whitish bread, piece of yellowish cheese, thick and juicy slab of bologna, mustard, and ka-blam! Wish granted. But no, those dung-tongued fat-cats in theirs champagne castles just had to get involved. “Nobody grants wishes like us tuxedo’d yacht monkeys. Wish-granting is our business. AND BUSINESS IS BOOMING!” Who are they to decide what goes on a sandwich? What are they THE TOPPING GODS?! Seriously, no one puts gasoline on a sandwich. No matter what it’s costing at the pump. C’mon man, jeez.