Condiments. Yep. Mayo remains disgusting, but I left it in for the sake of a cohesive concept.
Condiments: A Middle school Art Teacher Fumbles Through Discussion of Race Relations
In life, it is easy to believe that the sidelined tastes that end up on the tips of our palates should be kept separate from one another. As if they would feud upon contact, and render a combined flavor akin to that of animal feces.
But this just isn’t so. Feel free to digest this analogy: keeping your condiments apart is the same as lodging a handful of sporks deep into your anal canal while riding a cross-town bus with no air conditioning. Your initial reaction to that fun-loaded imagery is sound: sure, it sounds like a gas, but man, it wastes what precious little time we have on this rounded, mostly wet planet of consumption opportunities. Precious, precious little time.
How little time? Not enough time to bother with the segregation of our condiment population. That’s how goddamn little.
You see, there is something truly beautiful that happens once the mayonnaise has been properly spiked with mustard. Just a knife-load will do. The flavors combine in such a manner as to become superior to their individual elements. Mustard, by itself, tastes something close to salted copper, while mayo tastes pretty much like what it is: rotten eggs and degraded animal, vegetable, or nut essence.
But if you put the two together, a free vacation for two on a Carnival cruise explodes across your capped molars, and you feel as if all your worries were set ablaze by My Little Pony and some cotton candy-ish Care Bears.
But chocolate, unfortunately, goes with nothing.