Speaking of which — and this is a terrible segue, I know, but beggars can’t be choosers — my fourth “Trousers Talk” column (1, 2, and 3), this time on the subject of sandwiches:

Want to know something? I like sandwiches. Not just any sandwich, of course — I hate tuna fish with a fiery passion, for instance, and pimento loaf, while quite tasty, gives me a rash — but overall, I think the basic idea of sandwiches is pretty keen. You’ve got a piece of bread, something on top of that, and then another piece of bread rounding out the mix. It’s a simple, can’t-miss concept, like over-the-counter drugs, under-the-counter pornography, or the steam-powered orangutan.

Sandwiches are really something. They’re the meal by which all others should be judged and found wanting. A bowl of soup? I don’t think so. A garden salad? Please, don’t make me laugh. Sandwiches are where it’s at. If used properly, there’s nothing they can’t do. They can help build a bridge to a brighter, less hungry tomorrow, a social utopia where bread, succulent meats and cheeses, and the occasional dab of Dijon mustard or mayonnaise collide in a kaleidoscope of flavor.

I like to keep at least three sandwiches nearby me at all times, perhaps wrapped in wax paper and stuffed down the front of my pajamas, or perhaps tucked inside a knapsack slung over my shoulder as I whistle a merry tune. I like whistling merry tunes. That doesn’t make me any less of a man, no matter what they might say about me behind my back at the office.

I like sandwiches, and that’s all there is to it. There’s nothing strange or sexual about it, and I certainly don’t need to see any company psychiatrist, thank you very much. I’m as sane as the next fellow — and even if that next fellow is the company janitor, Melvin, who once removed the metal plate from his own skull with a rusty lug wrench just to show the invisible elves that he could do it, that doesn’t change the fact that sandwiches are really swell. If anything, I think it proves the exact opposite, since Melvin was never too fond of sandwiches to begin with, and his doctors have kept him off solid foods since the lug wrench incident. Elves, too, are notorious for their bad advice. I think, if anything, we should focus more of our attention on this wondrous food called sandwiches, and I don’t think I should be penalized for discussing the intense pleasure I derive from them on company time.

But that is exactly what’s happened. I was recently asked to take a few weeks of “personal time”, to “clear my head”, or they would “call security”. But don’t think I’ve let it get me down, no sir. I’ve used this time off as an opportunity to research sandwiches and all their miraculous properties. I hope I can demonstrate that my love for them is not unfounded, and that I am at least as sane as Melvin and his invisible elves.

Did you know that sandwiches were named for John Montague, the Fourth Earl of Sandwich? I’ve been told that’s someplace in England. The story goes that he was a gambler who never liked to leave the table, so he ordered that meats and cheese served between slices of bread be brought to him. That way, he could eat with one hand and play cards with the other. What he did with his feet, history does not tell us. Isn’t that always the way?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a sandwich to make. Research like this is hungry work.