The calendar has become scripture carved into the sky. No longer numbers, no longer glyphs — now constellations of appointments blaze overhead, each star a meeting, each galaxy a deadline. I looked up this morning and saw the heavens rearrange themselves into a single word: “Everything.” The inbox joined in, sending me emails from addresses like apocalypse@festivemail.com. Each message contained only one phrase: “The end is bread.”

The drizzle has become universal. It no longer falls from clouds; it pours from the fabric of reality itself. Mist coils through galaxies, condensation beads on planets, and tidal floods surge across dimensions. Indoors, the damp has taken on a rhythm, dripping in sync with the heartbeat of the cosmos. I swear I heard the oven hum in Gregorian chant, accompanied by the fridge in minor key.

And then there’s the driveway. Today’s deposit was not a shape, not a spiral, not a duck or a goose. It was everything. A vast, sprawling tableau sculpted in poo: turkeys, hams, sprouts, stuffing, cranberries, pigs in blankets, cheeses, salmon, chestnuts — all arranged in a chaotic feast. It was the sandwich itself, foretold in excrement, crowned with drizzle, glowing faintly in the mist. The driveway has become the altar. The prophecy is complete.

Today’s sandwich is Chaos & Crust’s Everything Christmas Sandwich.

Turkey, ham, sprouts, stuffing, cranberry, gravy, pigs in blankets, cheese, salmon, chestnuts, bloomer bread.

The bloomer is vast, its crust golden and cracked, its interior soft and yielding. Inside, every flavour of December collides. Turkey and ham bring savoury weight. Sprouts add earthiness. Stuffing crumbles with sage and onion richness. Cranberry bursts through with sharp sweetness. Gravy seeps into every corner, binding the chaos. Pigs in blankets add smoky indulgence. Cheese melts into salmon, chestnuts crunch against bread. It is not balanced. It is not restrained. It is everything.

The first bite is overwhelming. Every flavour collides, every texture clashes, every note screams. It is not a sandwich; it is a universe collapsing into bread. Eating it while drizzle floods the cosmos and the driveway glows feels ritualistic, apocalyptic. The Everything Christmas Sandwich doesn’t just distract from the chaos; it is the chaos. A sandwich that tastes like prophecy fulfilled, like destiny consumed, like December itself ending in one final bite.

Tomorrow, there is no tomorrow. The calendar has dissolved. The drizzle has consumed the sky. The driveway has spoken its last. But for now, the Everything Christmas Sandwich offers the only clarity left: a bite of apocalypse, carved in bread, prophecy, and excess.