The Curse of Aging and The Food of My Youth

Posted: November 1, 2011 in my tubby self, nostalgia is a dirty word, Terrible Takeout

You know how I know I am getting old? Whenever I walk into a food court now I know that there isn’t a single place I can go eat that won’t cause later violent bowel distress. Even the more healthy options are guaranteed to take the short and distressing trip through my colon like a fat kid on a greased water slide.

None of it even tastes very good any more. I sit down to a burger and fries and all I really notice is how bland it is under the mountain of sauces. I could pour myself a big cup of mustard and ketchup and pretty much achieve the same flavour experience. I think that is why most of those places are so liberal with the onion use. Nothing like violently assaulting your taste buds with raw onion to make you ignore the flavour of grade F beef.

When I was a kid this food was like the golden standard. It was the mark of a delicious meal that it came with moist towelettes and individual satchels of ketchup. Now my golden standard is any home cooked meal I didn’t have to make myself. If I get to put 0 effort in and get to have a decent meal out the other end then I have had a successful day. I can cook, don’t get me wrong, but nothing tastes as amazing as something that was made while I got to sit on my ass contemplating my navel lint. 

Seriously though, who are all the people who won’t eat leftovers? What the hell is their problem? Like somehow the perfectly acceptable meal from last night has somehow become inedible in the span of a night in the fridge? Maybe you need to CLEAN THE DAMN FRIDGE THEN! You people irk the shit out of me, that is all I am saying.
Rancid Monke

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