By Wil Forbis
I talk, occasionally, of the Jack in the Box diner that exists near
my hovel. It’s quite a charming facility, actually... While the nearby
restaurants (mostly ethnic fare) are relatively clean, this Jack in
the Box is filth strewn, both on the outside and interior. A bevy of
teenage punk rockers often congregate in front of it, occasionally blocking
the entrance (though much to their credit, never asking for spare change.)
The food takes the already ghoulish Jack in the Box fare and perverts
it to the degree that you are assured that whatever cow died to make
the Sourdough Jack you’re consuming was ashamed of her limited contribution
to the process. The service is rendered as lovingly as a SS officer
delivering daily gruel to a family of condemned gypsies. All in all,
it’s as if someone teleported a tiny section of Times Square, circa
1976, into the primarily gay and middle class area of Seattle I live
in. And each time I venture forth, to procure a Jumbo Jack and fries,
I swear it will be my last.
Recently, I became so ravenous by a swimming workout that I decided
I would revisit my dark past and call once again upon this Jack in the
Box (especially after heavily pondering my only other option, which
was biting into my own arm and sucking forth the sodium rich blood within.)
After ordering a singular Sourdough Jack I received a pleasant surprise.
The condiments tray, which used to contain exclusively ketchup and mayonnaise,
now had the inclusion of mustard packets. (In the past, you had to make
a special request to the Jack in the Box attendant who would make it
seem as if the task was on par with taming rabid ferrets.)
The truth is, I love mustard. I’ve always thought it belonged right
up there with ketchup, mayonnaise, relish and all the usual condiments.
And as I recall, the world used to agree with me. In the days of my
youth, (the seventies) mustard was expected to be on a hamburger or
hot dog, indeed, you had to make a special order for it to be made "persona
non gratta." But somewhere along the way, mustard started to disappear.
You’d peel open a Whopper or Big Mac and see only the red of ketchup
and white of mayonnaise amongst the glop inside (Or whatever color that
beastly Burger King "special" sauce is. You know, the one that taste
like a cross between horseradish sauce and dog urine.) You were forced
to wonder what had happened to our friend, the mustard. Had there been
a mustard shortage in one of the middle eastern countries that supplied
the delicacy? Had someone imposed a mustard tariff, thereby keeping
hard working Americans from their yellow treat? Why had mustard deserted
us?
I’m forced to ponder whether it was the fancy Grey Poupon advertisements
that started running at the time. (You know: "But of course.") Perhaps
mustard started to get to big for its britches and suddenly couldn’t
get along with the other condiments. Obviously, ketchup is and always
will be the most blue collar of sandwich dressings. And mayonnaise bespeaks
of 1950’s middle class suburbia. But mustard… mustard is fresh from
the old country… a taste that’s spicy yet in many ways unidentifiable.
It’s easy to see how the other sauces could get jealous if mustard got
a chance to ride around in fancy limos and be more than just a mustard…
but a Dijon!
Hopefully, the fact that even the sleaziest Jack in the Box is now
offering mustard will showcase that mustard is returning to its place
in our culture. Perhaps mustard can flow freely from every condiment
dispenser in the land, embracing us with it’s zesty warmth. In truth,
a good mustard is like making love to a large, fleshy prostitute: you
know it’s wrong, but you are overcome with the sheer bawdiness of the
event. You think of people in lesser, mustard-free, countries and the
tales they tell of America. A land rich with freedom and bounty and
a place where the streets are paved with… (you got it) mustard!
I have no idea what this column is about.
Wil Forbis is a
well known international playboy who lives a fast paced life attending
chic parties, performing feats of derring-do and making love to the
world's most beautiful women. Together with his partner, Scrotum-Boy,
he is making the world safe for democracy. Email - acidlogic@hotmail.comVisit Wil's web log, My So-Called Penis, and receive complete enlightenment.
