Lerbathor the Crippled Ham Sandwich

Lerbathor was a crippled ham sandwich. He had been involved in the terrible food fight of 1998. But Lerbathor hardly noticed that he was missing a chunk of his bottom crust. He remained the most chipper sandwich you ever did see. Whenever a snack walked by, he was sure to greet it. There was never a boring moment when hanging out with Lerbathor. And best of all, Lerbathor did something most food couldn’t do: He made you feel special.

Durkafurk was the most scrumptious salad you had ever looked at. She was beautiful, elegant, and charming in a way most salads weren’t. She had a liveliness that couldn’t be emulated. Durkafurk was enamored with Lerbathor. She liked how he was always so happy and always so fun.

Lerbathor learned from his good friend Shanks the Salt Shaker that Durkafurk was totally crushing on him. Lerbathor was pleasantly surprised. He had never noticed it before, but Durkafurk was indeed quite a salad.

One thing lead to another and Lerbathor and Durkafurk were a happy couple. However, Durkafurk noticed something that made them different. When they strolled together through the kitchen, something was off. It didn’t feel right. Then, at one moment, it hit her. Lerbathor was crippled.

“Hey Lerbathor?” Durkafurk asked.

“Yes, my sweet salad?” replied Lerbathor.

“You’re crippled.”

Lerbathor’s world crashed before him. He was brought back to the food fight of 1998. He suddenly became very aware of his imperfect bottom crust. He grew very upset.

Lerbathor could no longer be chipper. When a snack walked by, he was afraid to greet it. There were boring moments hanging out with Lerbathor because he was afraid of doing the wrong thing. Now, more than ever, Lerbathor was conscious about everything he did and doubted his worth as a sandwich. Durkafurk noticed.

One thing lead to another and Lerbathor and Durkafurk were separated. She moved away and he never saw her again. Lerbathor was ashamed. Ashamed he was crippled. Ashamed he wasn’t good enough. He didn’t feel special, and nobody made him feel special.

One day, Lerbathor did something no sandwich dared to do. He hid under a bench in a park, waiting. Just as he had hoped, an old lady slowly crept up to the bench and took a seat, a bag in her hand. She reached into the bag. Lerbathor watched eagerly. Just as he had hoped, she pulled out chunks of bread and threw them to the ground.

A flock of birds quickly made their way toward the feast. Lerbathor had to act quickly. He burst toward the pile of bread pieces and scavenged around. The birds attention quickly shifted from the bread crumbs to the sandwich, a more appealing prize. Lerbathor didn’t have enough time. He rifled and rifled through all the pieces and—he found it. A crust. In one swift motion, he grabbed the crust, just narrowly avoiding a beak. Another beak came right for his chest, but he rushed off, under the bench, through the thick grass, away.

When Lerbathor came back to the kitchen, he was a new sandwich. His bottom crust was as good as new. Lerbathor was a magnificent ham sandwich.

But he didn’t feel special. He didn’t feel as chipper as he had once felt before. Every move he made, he doubted. There was nothing Lerbathor could do to shake his hesitation. To shake his fear of failure. To shake his self-loathing. Because to Durkafurk, Lerbathor would always be a crippled ham sandwich.