To The Angry Subway Sandwich Artist

First of all...I love Subway...it's delicious.
What's not delicious is your attitude, angry subway sandwich artist woman. The tattoo on your neck which read "Dante" in script writing was an immediate turn-off and almost constituted a "Really?" accompanied by obvious slouched, dissapointed shoulders and an extremely loud sigh. I then decided since I was having a relatively good day...and was famished...that I would chalk the tat up as a youthful mistake made in the mid 80's and hoped you had turned a corner in life. Hopefully a corner involving friendly customer service and effecient, thoughtful sandwich making abilities.
As I tentatively approached the typical subway counter with the curved glass sneeze guard protecting the meat/veggies, we made eye contact and I fully expected "welcome to subway...what type of sandwich can I make for you?" or at least "Hi, what type of bread?" You did neither and instead gave me a look implying I had done something wrong and was holding up the entire subway franchise operation and probably was responsible for your current life situation. I then looked a bit north of your lifeless, angry eyes and noticed your issued Subway visor was cocked to the side. Thank God you had protective gloves on...because I'm pretty sure the back of your hand would have revealed the official stamp granting you access to the most recent fidy cent concert. I then happened upon three visible hickeys on the left side of your neck in varrying stages of healing. Im guessing these were most likely left by Dante as a warning to potental suitors proudly stating "this is my property."
After several agonizing seconds of awkward, judgmental silence you condescendingly said "what?" My blood pressure jumped to an unsafe level, several four letter words scrolled across my brain like a NASDAQ ticker, and I instantly regretted giving you the benefit of the doubt. My mothers sound advise of "Fool me once...." flashed in my head, which now felt as though it was going to explode momentarily.
I glanced at the patron ahead of me, a middle aged business woman, and found her expression to be that of understanding and sympathy to that of my situation. Just before I expressed my specific thoughts to you, angry subway sandwich artist, I looked to the patrons behind me, a family with three small children. Knowing that my vocabulary was now limited to inappropriate verbs, adjectives and gestures, I decided to check myself and politely order my food. "turkey breast foot long on wheat, double meat please." Yes, I did say please.
You rolled your eyes at me, turned to retrieve italian bread (clearly not what I ordered) and gripped the yellow handled subway knife. You did this with a certian familiarity and skill, which made me reach into my pocket and open my cell phone so the call to 911 would be expedited. You then began haphazardly slapping turkey breast on the beginnings of what you called a sandwich. I again felt the hate welling up inside me, and had enough. I calmly said, may I speak with your manager?
A sneering smile crept across your face as you pointed to your upside-down nametag which read "MERCEDES, MANAGER." Figuring my complaint would bring no justice to my sandwich or your attitude, I nodded my head silently saying, "you win this time MERCEDES, well played woman." I quietly left one of my favorite fast food restaurants in defeat, and headed to the local Taco Bell, run exclusively by asian people... a whole other festivus grievance for perhaps another time.
Long live Festivus!
P.S. you are welcome to my house for feats of strength, angry subway sandwich artist. Bring your visor, bad attitude, and cole slaw for dinner...Dante is not invited.