Thursday, February 14, 2013

Don't Mind If I Do...

First of all, let me be the first to welcome the newest member of THATJ into the fold. You've done proud by your people. The elders in your tribe have told me to tell you may now proceed on your journey towards manhood. Your vision quest awaits you. Talk to me about the acquisition of black lights and black light accessories, you'll need them now more than ever, and I know a guy. Now, let's make an awkward transition to what I'm sure we can all agree is a far juicier subject. Sauce.

Look, I understand that over saucing is a problem. However, I am of the firm belief that you have miscast the blame for this phenomenon. Hipsters of all sorts (San Franciscans, Chicagoans, the homeless, etc.) do love sauce, this is a fact, however hipsters enjoy sauce in moderation. Hipsters enjoy fancy sauces with locally sourced ingredients that, unless you are a hipster, you may have never heard of. Hipster sauces enhance the taste, the aroma, and the quality of the food that we consume. Assholes have given sauce a bad name. Assholes can have their Cracker Barrel slop. Hipster aren't assholes, we're simply not interested enough to be. So let's place the blame where blame is due. I'm looking at you!

A brief poem:
Sauces Are - Anon
Spicy, savory, and charmingly sweet.
Sour and salty and totally neat.

It's true because it rhymes. If you'd like to try attempt to refute one of the most prolific sayer of sayings in the history of the world when he/she says something in rhyme form, well, then by my guest and best of luck.

Entire cultural identities are defined by the sauces that they create. In America we have nacho cheese and ranch for literally everything, Canadians have their gravy for poutine, the Swiss dip everything in chocolate, Italians and their tomatoes, the French and their delightful and precociously pretentious velouté and béchamel, the Japanese have "spicy" and eel, the Chinese with their sweet and sour and whatever General Tso's comes with. I mean, would there even be a Mexico without mole? Let's just say I have my doubts. And if there wasn't a Mexico, where would stuff like this, or this, or even this happen? I love Mexico and I would be sad if it didn't exist. Being the resident representative of hipsterdom, I'm sad enough as it is, it's in my DNA, it courses through my blood stream (powered by fair trade coffee of course). Do you really want to see a hipster hopped up on sad? Would you be able to live with that burden on your conscience? I don't think so. I really and truly don't.

Think about it. Let's say you're sitting at on a park bench, minding your own business. You're kidnapped by a band if midnight marauders and whisked away to some undisclosed location. You have no idea where you are. You are blindfolded, you haven't slept in days, you can barely form a coherent sentence, you are confused and you are afraid. Then one day your captors bring you some food. You notice a cumin scented pomegranate sauce, even in your confused state, because thankfully, they were liberal with the application of said sauce. The next day a psychic's aura enters your brain (your parents hired a psychic to help find you because the police were positively useless!). You communicate to the psychic that, well, maybe, just maybe, you are somewhere in Morocco, based only on the sauce! Four days later, 12 Academi trained mercenaries storm your bunker and set you free. You WERE in Morocco after all, and, well, the sauce, the sauce saved the day. Seriously, think about it.

So do I want this? No thank you. But do I want this? Abso-fucking-lutely. So, give me sauce, or give me death.

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