Thursday, May 04, 2006

Sour cream---the condiment of the damned

The only substance on this earth more disgusting than mayonnaise is sour cream. Mayonnaise is a foul, hateful concoction, capable of destroying my zest for life with a single taste, but sour cream is in a different league entirely. Sour cream is mucky, viscous evil. Sour cream is the devil’s ejaculate. On the day of the world’s destruction, the earth’s crust will split open and sour cream will bubble up from the furnaces of hell to engulf the righteous and wicked alike. I’d rather put my tongue in a rabid moose’s bunghole than eat something with sour cream on it. I’d rather uncircumcise myself with rubber cement and strips of own ass than let even a little bit of sour cream touch my tongue.

I hate sour cream.

When I get Mexican food–which I love, by the way–most of my energy is directed towards making sure that my meal does not have sour cream on it, that they refrain even from giving me the sour cream “on the side”. “On the side” is not far enough away. I want sour cream to be illegal, I don’t want it in a cute little porcelain dish. I don’t know a whole lot of Spanish, but I know how to say “No crema, por favor,” very clearly, and with a convincing accent.

Sour cream is such a wretched, immoral, unholy product that it behooves me, a libertine in most matters, to raise my voice in objection when other people eat it willy-nilly. How seriously do I take this duty of mine? Very seriously. Let me illustrate it for you. Suspend your disbelief for a second and imagine that I land a date with the most desirable woman on the planet. For the sake of argument, let’s say that the most desirable woman on the planet is actress Anne Hathaway. Now, since she’s something very special, I’m not going to take her out to some cheap, cut-rate dive. I am a gentleman. I’m going to splurge and take her to Chipotle. I, of course, will get for myself a burrito which has not been contaminated by the disgraceful sauce. But Miss Hathaway, in a move that wounds me to my very core, purchases a burrito slathered in it. She doesn’t just give the noble Chipotle worker the opportunity to splash just a little sour cream on her meal, she urges him to go nuts with the stuff. So, in the end, Anne walks away with a small soft drink and a foil-wrapped burrito brimming with liquidy perdition. After staring at her sullenly for awhile, here is how our conversation will go:

KM: Your burrito is disgusting. I just need you to know that. It disgusts me. It disgusts me to my very core.

AH: (Concerned) Why, Kevin? Are you allergic to corn?

KM: (Slamming my fist down on the table) You know goddamn well I’m not allergic to corn! Look at it! Look at that filthy, gooey sludge just oozing from that tortilla! It’s hideous. HIDEOUS, I tell you!

AH: I like it.

KM: It’s like the white paste of human cruelty right there. It’s like the dribbling essence of distilled misery. You know what it is? It’s albino vomit! That’s all it is...

AH: Oh. I’m sorry you feel that way. Don’t you want to tell me the entire life story of some obscure jazz artist? I mean, because that would be pretty interesting...

KM: I’m throwing up a little right now. I am literally vomiting. In my mouth. I’m vomiting in my mouth, but because I’m a gentleman, you’re not seeing it. But I am. I swear to God.

AH: If you hate it so much why do you---

KM: I could throw up on your burrito right now. I really could. But that would be too good for it. My vomit is delicious compared to that horrid atrocity right there. My vomit is a light and sophisticated vinaigrette and your burrito is slathered with an indecent, unbearable, crusty semen sauce sprung from the loins of Lucifer! Of Lucifer, I say!

AH: I want to go home. I don’t want to be out with you anymore. I hate you.

KM: Oh, yeah? Well, I hate you, too! You sour cream eating harridan! You nauseating, burrito-ruining glamorous starlet! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

AH: I’m going home now. You’re a sick person. You need help...

(She leaves. I spend a moment engrossed in thought.)

KM: Wait! Come back! I’m sorrrrrrrry!

And that’s how I feel about sour cream.