Line (b/w Kristy)

Corn on pizza? Fine. Bring it on. Sweet potato latte? Whatever floats your boat. French fry-encrusted corn dog? More, please. Cherry tomatoes on top of a cake? Fight the good (fruit) fight. I don't often complain about or disparage Korean fusion food (what J. Scott Burgeson once humorously dubbed "confusion food"), but even I have my limits. If there's strawberry jam on that sandwich, ma'am, it better be accompanied by peanut butter, not with ham and cheese. And if you wish to avoid my amateur* culinary critique, you'd be wise to avoid creating the colossal brainfuck of an appetizer I was served last night.

I attended a wedding yesterday, and the drinking (makkoli, beer, soju, whiskey, more beer) started early, but I was sober enough to recognize the pure abjectness of what I saw. After an early wedding feast, a friend and I opted to pass on noraebang shenanigans** and instead wound up at Mad Dog's in Seohyeon. Of the myriad pubs in Seohyeon, Mad Dog's is unquestionably one of the worst. The wait staff is as friendly as a cat at a mouse convention, and the food can either be described as "terrible" or "piss-poor." Still, I'm an easygoing man who's willing to suffer through pretty much anything***, so when my friend suggested the place I gave a nonchalant shrug and said, "Sure." I've mentioned that I was kinda intoxicated, right?

We ordered nachos. Kinda hard to fuck up nachos, but Mad Dog's did its best. The chips were brittle and nearly burnt; the mozzarella cheese was globular and tasteless. Yes, I was surprised and pleased by the half-moon slices of pepperoni that topped each nacho, but my enthusiasm was quickly killed by the cold dabs of ketchup applied underneath each nacho's cushion of cheeserubber. These were not nachos; they were individually prepared triangles of awfulness.

Yet that's not what ruined the plate. I can stomach pretty much anything, and like I said, I was kinda drunk. I could probably eat a shoe heel slathered in mayonnaise under such circumstances. No; it was the cheese dip (quick question: Should nachos require cheese dip? Um, no.) in the plate's center.

It was covered in candy-coated chocolate sprinkles.

Cheese and chocolate. Who does that? Trust me, I've thought way too much about it, and the only reasonable (yet still profoundly idiotic) explanation I can come up with is that putting CANDY-COATED CHOCOLATE FUCKING SPRINKLES on cheese dip was more about presentation than anything. But the only thing I wanted to be presented with in this case was a barf bag. I've told Kmart that I'll try anything save for anal sex and hard drugs once, but that list has to be amended, because if you think I'd ever eat cheese dip with chocolate sprinkles then you, sir, don't know me very well. I'd sooner eat a golf ball.

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Dreams are only dreams, but occasionally they're eerily too close to reality. I've twice had dreams about airplane crashes only to wake up and read that a plane had crashed. I don't put much stock in synchronicity, either, but I've had some truly bizarre experiences in that regard, the best example being the time I joked to coworkers that, during our vacation in Thailand, we'd run into a former coworker who had skipped country a few months prior. What do you know, we did.

I try not to attach any significance to such occurrences, partly because How Dids and What Ifs can lead to a long road of contemplative lunacy, but mostly because the outcomes are essentially meaningless. So what if I was just considering going to Burger King for a Whopper and a Burger King commercial comes on TV a short time later? Is that going to profoundly alter my life****? This phenomenon, at least for me, is pretty mundane. It's certainly not Final Destination or Sliding Doors-level impactful. Regardless, when I had a dream last night about Kristy Swanson dining in Hell's Kitchen***** it came as a bit of a surprise, to say the least, when I was watching Season Six of Gordon Ramsey's predictable-yet-addictive show via YouTube this evening and saw the one and only Kristy Swanson sit down to dinner******.

Does this mean anything? Of course not.

At least I don't think it does.

Yet.

(By the way, and I don't want to alarm you, but did you know that the Swanson company makes turkey TV dinners, and it was Thanksgiving in the States this past Thursday, and Kmart made a Thanksgiving-related post featuring none other than Kristy Swanson? This can't be a coincidence. It can't.)


* Remember, I'm the same man who goes into fits of excitement when presented with a SPAMwich, the same man who eats Cheetos and Snyder's of Hanover pretzel pieces with a spoon.

** I sing like cannonballs float, the cold reality of which has always saddened me. As a consolation, the Lord blessed me with an eight-inch cock and a killer smile. I think I'll live.

*** My ex-wife terrorized and abused me for four years, and the only reason I initially stuck around was because she had great tits. Later, it was for the sake of our daughter. Boy, what a mistake that was. As a consolation, I received custody of the 18th Letter and got remarried to a sane person. Win!

**** I'm not, however, saying it wouldn't. For I honestly believe in the redemptive powers of The Crown.

***** Why hasn't a chicken hof named Hell's Chicken been opened yet? Seriously, why?

****** She looked damn good for 39, too.