Ranch and BBQ, and just a tinge of ketchup mired in sweet(?) chili for the perfect aftertaste. The deluxe suite of dressings left in drapes and wire-thin layers coating your tongue. Just a tad too tangy for your liking but sensational enough to satiate your momentary desire and tingle temptation. Who's to blame for no one would have ever suspected that that extra overcoat of honey mustard would leave one wringing in despair and drenched in putrid regret. And that revolting stench, our olfactory's public enemy number one, permeates every part of you. It is in your clothes, sandwiched in the pores of your bones, and in your eyes; you can practically see the smell, and taste the disgust.
Honey mustard--what's not to like. Sweet. Tantalizing. Guilty of committing licentious acts with your taste buds, a crime of titillating fantasy and all so salacious. What's there not to like?
What's there not to see?
Two-faced, obviously. You are either honey or mustard but someone decided to throw both together and coin a new mixture. Fair enough, but insofar as layman are concerned, nobody ever suspects what the name suggests. Honey mustard? Honey (and) mustard--just another incontrovertible truth not worth staging a debate over. Wrong. You'd damn well know that ranch sauce isn't as the name suggests literally but that don't leave us questioning our hunch over what goes into honey mustard. It is honey and mustard. Still fair enough. But just because we like honey, and just because we like mustard, does not necessitate the fact that we will like honey-mustard. That is the first mistake.
Honey. It's funny how something so sweet can end up being so sticky. Like glue, it camps on the roof of your mouth, and slides down your sugar-coated tongue in a painfully slow and dragged-out motion. For it's a fool who might even consider that this honey was ever going to slide down the back of your throat. It merely enters the cave of darkness, pitch black and undetected by your own senses, and it hangs there--cold and murky. And every time you take a gulp of saliva, you feel the fluid slide back and forth, up and down your throat, and you know it is there. But nobody believes you. Honey is honey and that's as sweet as it can get. Everybody listens to the lunatic forecasting the end of the world that is ostensibly nigh but of course, not a single soul could give a rat's ass about the poor man's soul that is haunted by honey mustard. Even the ones who predict the end of the world know who's lost their marbles for good. And it certainly ain't the men that are playing God.
What the hell did I just write? Well, if somebody had listened, nobody would need to question.
And sometimes I can still feel it there.
