By Ted Cruz
It all started at my local Subway sandwich joint in ‘17. I was delving into the second half of my footlong on italian with only shredded lettuce and yellow mustard, praying to God asking for him to put an end to this wretched stage of teenage veganism when my world was turned completely on its head. From the corner of my eye, I saw one of my fellow pre-play-rehearsal-subway-goers summon a picture from google on their iPod Touch. This troubled me greatly, as I knew that our Subway did not offer publicly available WiFi. Maybe the Lord or the universe or Simon Cowell had made this google search possible for my phoneless friend for a reason. My psychic senses were giving me that particular tingle that meant I was on the brink of destruction from the contents of my friend’s iPod fourth generation. My clairvoyance had never done me wrong up until now, and it wasn’t about to disappoint. When the photo was revealed to the rest of us, I knew that my carefree youth was behind me.
When it became my turn to hold the iPod, I found myself looking into the sultry, republican eyes of one Ted Cruz. Smiling with his signature flare that screamed “I’m definitely part-iguana, or at the very least iguana-adjacent,” Tedward Cruz’s image faded into black, and I was left looking at my own reflection in the darkness of my friend’s dead electronic device. It is important to note that while I am now aware that the picture of Tedwin Cruz had vanished due to my freshman year compadre’s inability to carry a charger, I had no idea at the time. How? Well, that’s simple. I happen to look exactly like Tedgar Cruz.
At that moment, I knew that my only option was to stand my ground; the two working Sandwich Artists were blocking the entrance with a Glock 19 in each of each of their hands. Yes, you read that correctly. Each of each of. That’s 4 glocks, all pointed at me in this Subway. And all because I bear a more-than-passing resemblance to Tedwick Cruz.
Well, I may be misleading you there. As all of you know by now, Tedmund Cruz has been found by the Court of Public Opinion to be responsible for the Zodiac Killer shenanigans of the 60s and 70s. Of course, I could not have anything to do with these murderous hijynx! I wasn’t even close to being born at this time in history, or so I had managed to make all those around me believe up until now. But now my secret was out. I, Sarah, am the Zodiac Killer.
How did I hide my secret identity from society at large until this fateful sandwich outing, you ask? The answer is simple. Each morning and night, I lather my face in Johnson & Johnson diaper rash cream and spray my entire body from head to hammer toe in WD-40, as I have every single day since my inaugural crime spree in the mid to late 1960s. (Don’t drill me on the semantics, it’s easy to forget the particulars when you have so many tracks to cover. It happens to the best of us) I managed to live the entire first half of my life in a solitary hideyhole in order to set the scene for a future where there would be nobody to accidentally confess my crimes to. Then, around 1963, I hit the ground running. Blah, blah, you’ve heard the story. Cyphers and the like. Cut to this Veggie Delite sandwich on this day in this Subway, and the jig is finally up.
In order to punish me for my heinous (all the while impressive) crimes, the U.S. government has bestowed upon me a punishment that compared to the Death Penalty, seems a tad cruel and unusual. From now until 2024 or 2025, depending on how my grades turn out, I am doomed to a future of writing about extreme winter sports and retail-worker anecdotes on
this here publication. Worse yet, the crew at the Pittiful News isn’t even letting me touch the whole horoscope thing. They say it would be too meta. What do they know anyway?