Are you hungry? When was the last time you ate? Is your colon begging for mercy? I bet it was Chipotle. Now that I probably have you thinking about food, it should become more apparent that a good portion of our life is driven in part by the search for the next meal. Whether it’s the four plain pizzas the teacher ordered when your high school debate team meeting ran late one night or the weird wine and cheese parties your parents have with the neighbors, it’s a part of everything we do. Through many lonely and albeit strange observation of others, I have found that there is one particular element of a meal that I consider to reveal what type of person you are in general. It’s the part that sometimes rides along on your clothes when you’re done eating. Those sweet and sour and sometimes spicy meal enhancers…condiments.
Unless you are one of those “omg I can’t eat this it’s so fattening but I will anyway and stay skinny and all my friends will fake hate me for it” type of girls, I have found that the general population of ketchup lovers is male. Of these males, the majority are usually all-American kids who like domestic beer and sports. I don’t know whether or not they drooled through most of first grade when they covered fractions, but proportions usually escape this type of guy. They reach for the Heinz bottle and start squirting like a bunch of tweens at a One Direction concert. I’m talking a seriously sadistic and almost criminal drowning of French fries in red goo. When the meal is over, there is a CLEAR discrepancy on how much ketchup was necessary and how much was used. Sickening, but the message is always clear. This guy doesn’t believe in recycling or moderation, and likely owns 2-4 baseball jerseys.
If mustard is your favorite condiment, you’re probably a huge asshole. When you ask someone if they like mustard, they’ll scoff and you’ll probably get one of two answers – “What kind?” or “No.” What kind? I don’t know, the fucking yellow kind. Then they’ll delve into a discussion about how there are so many different kinds of mustard; Grey Poupon mustard, delicatessen mustard, ballpark hot dog mustard, honey mustard, mustard mustard. While you make your case for plain mustard, they insist that it is not the same thing. Meanwhile, you’re hoping a ceiling fan malfunctions, detaches, and decapitates them so you don’t have to hear bullshit coming from their miserable suckhole anymore. Mustard people are picky, and they’re going to remind you how delicate their palate is. This type of person scoffs at what someone is wearing in church.
If mayonnaise is your favorite condiment, you are a serial killer. Who the fuck puts mayonnaise on anything? First off, the texture is disgusting. It’s got the consistency of half melted ice cream, but smells like old milk. My first thought when I’m about to eat a cheeseburger is certainly not “You know what this is missing? Mayo. It needs way more of that.” The only people who like mayonnaise are over the age of 75, and thankfully they are all confined to God’s Waiting Room – the state of Florida. I’d rather have John Goodman fart in my mouth for every meal than eat mayo. Mayo people should be institutionalized.
Ranch people are the kind of people you want to party with. I was first introduced to the concept of ranch in second grade. If I wasn’t being a total boner and dropping my unstable Styrofoam lunch trays (how were you supposed to balance shit on that), I would pick up a piece of pizza every now and then. My friend Henry and I sat down one day with our pizza and began to eat. He had just broken his arm jumping off my family’s big trashcan because I told him to, because I’m a great influence. He proceeded to tear open a packet of ranch with one arm and some teeth, pouring it on his pizza. I was disgusted. What was he doing? It felt so wrong. He told me to try it. In second grade you’re kind of in the middle of a really long and drunk one night stand, so you’ll try anything. I did. The magic hit my tastebuds and I was hooked. What in the actual fuck had I been missing out on? Ranch people like wings. Wings pair well with beer. The rest of the math will be left as an exercise for the reader.
A hot sauce person is, at their very core, different. You have to be wired a little bit differently to willingly ingest something that gives you discomfort both in your mouth and, upon exiting the body, your anus. I can’t tell you how many times I wished I had a seatbelt on my porcelain mistress after pouring some Habanero-intense hot sauce on my food. Although some damage is done on the digestive system, I have found that hot sauce people are not as picky as mustard people. Don’t have any Texas Pete left? No worries, they’ll settle for some Tobasco or Cholula. I’m not really sure what it is that makes hot sauce people so tolerable of other sauces, but it is something we can all learn from. Hot sauce people are the ones who grab life by the horns…and lick them, making you uncomfortable but weirdly intrigued.
What, are you on a fucking diet? Grow up, you fitness dildo. If you don’t like using condiments, you’re a boring person. These people only have sex missionary and get golden labs named Charlie. It still appalls me that natural selection hasn’t killed off the people who just eat plain grilled chicken with a fork and knife. Someone once told me that food is not for enjoyment and is purely for nutrition. He shops at Earthfare and drives a silver Prius, which is all that needs to be said about that.
You may have read through these and said “wrong, no, I hate this guy so much, wrong, FUCK THIS KID, well okay I half agree with that.” I would like to remind you that these are just the astute observations of a guy in his early twenties. I still laugh at dick jokes and I don’t really don’t know if I filed my taxes right yet. Obviously we aren’t going to agree on everything, but that’s what America is about right?
[Editor's question: where the hell is BBQ sauce, Jake? FUCK THIS KID.]
Jake Alexander still listens to Lil Wayne daily and loves making animal crackers fight each other. You can follow him on Twitter — @callmeshitto