Victim’s Statement in the Matter of My Stolen Lunch

FROM THE moment that I opened the door of the breakroom refrigerator on Friday May 11 until now, time has had no meaning. My life stopped.

So far, the worst time was during those first few hungry hours, wondering whether my sandwich would be returned. Was eaten or not, and what had happened to it? I dreaded someday going to my grave without knowing.

My lunch was taken from me. The sneaky, conniving method of the theft has only intensified my grief.

Though in a very strange way, finally realizing that Todd Voelker had eaten it was a relief. It was surprisingly easy to learn my sandwich had been eaten, but there was also a deep sadness within me.

Gone, but not forgotten. NEVER forgotten.

But although some questions have been answered, others remain. And the culprit has not yet been punished.

I gain a little solace from the fact that the sandwich and my anticipation of feeling its delicious touch in my mouth had been the high point of my day. But my grief and sadness includes the experiences which the sandwich missed out on, in terms of being eaten and digested, and sliding through my intestines.

It was a beautiful, well-made, and fresh sandwich which was destined to taste great. But its role in my life was stolen from it just as it was stolen from me.

The sandwich had fresh roasted turkey, lettuce, and bacon with a light coating of mayonnaise and would have caused anyone who had seen it to salivate. The memory of the the sandwich will always be with me as I eventually recover enough to eat lunch at work again, and I will think of the unforgettable and special taste it would have had.

I will always miss the sensations that accompanied it; smelling the bacon, feeling the spongy lightness of the bread, and me, standing back with pride, imagining what it would taste like when I ate it after the 11:30-12:00 meeting that cold Friday in May.

Sandwich: I loved you as much as any man could love his lunch, and the thought of how much I would have loved to eat you will stay with me always.

The scene of this notorious perfidy. Look upon it's unassuming visage and know that such tragedies may strike anywhere, anytime, any breakroom.

Honestly, my thoughts and emotions at this time are solely with the sandwich. I really have little feeling for other things which may be happening.

I have been overawed by the amount of support and practical help from people at work – and especially the witnesses who have admitted to seeing Todd walking around with my lunch bag.
I would also like to thank those who offered me some of their food, or who asked others if they knew what had happened, which generated an overwhelming level of response.

I would like to thank everyone personally, but that would be annoying, so instead please take this as personal thank you to everyone, which is much easier. I have received many comments and even some emails of sympathy. These have been read and appreciated. In time I may endeavour to reply to some of them.

I have, however, found work security most inconsiderate in the way I have been treated despite keeping them informed as events have unfolded around the theft and subsequent sandwich-eating. Nevertheless I will continue to give them my full support and help where I can. I am certain that Todd’s perfidy can be proven, and that he will be punished in turn like the worthless shit he is.

Thus, my never-ending thanks go out to those who showed so much support for me in the events following my lunch’s disappearance. Sadly this wasn’t the outcome that we had all hoped for, but I can now celebrate the life of one of the most lovely and tasty constructions to grace this Earth.

Many people have approached me asking if they can do anything to help me get through this time. Yes, you can.

Please, if you are able, spit on Todd Voelker. Spit on that fat shit.

Black O marks break room refrigerator. Red X marks where your spit should go. He faces the wall so don't worry about him seeing you coming. I know I won't.

He sits all day at his desk on the fourth floor, within easy robbing distance of the fourth floor employee kitchen area. Though he is no doubt wet with the sweat that seeps from his pores as he ponders his guilt and coming reckoning, I do not think he is nearly wet enough.

Spit on him. If you can manage it, piss on him. Ask him if he wants a drink to go with his delicious sandwich and then unleash. Dig deep down and hock up a gooey load of mucus. Then launch it as his fat face. You couldn’t miss. It’s huge and round, and it’s disgusting. Feces would be okay, too, but only if it’s very wet. I don’t know why, really; I just want to see him drip with disgusting fluids.

For those who have lost a lunch and are left behind, spitting on the obese turd who thought he could get away with eating it can help to end the heartache and confusion that accompanies such difficult times.

My joyous, hungry day may have been cut short tragically but the finger-pointing and character assassination has only begun, and has certainly made me feel better so far.

It would really help my faith in the blogosphere and those that spend their time fixed to the internet in this modern age if you could all join me in punishing him.

Again, Todd Voelker. T-o-d-d [space] V-o-e-l-k-e-r. Fourth floor. Big fat guy. Spit on that fucker.

I hope you all have a happy weekend. I look out into the remainder of 2012 with a fresh approach to life in memory of what could have been and hope that, for my sandwich’s sake, salival justice is visited swiftly.