My friend Pete recently shared with me a story of a friend of his who had never eaten chili in her entire life.
So many questions spring to mind when considering her situation. How had she successfully avoided chili for so long? What element of the chili was so offensive to her? The bean? The pepper? The spice? Why chili? Why not some other, lesser food? Like chow mein, for instance. I could happily live the rest of my life without seeing another damned chow mein noodle. Does her chili bigotry have anything to do with former Angels and Twins slugger Chili Davis? Did he wrong her somehow? Perhaps he bludgeoned her dog to death?
I wonder if she will ever have an encounter with chili, or if she will spend the remainder of her days in some sort of godforsaken, chili-less existance. I can only imagine a realm beyond chili: stone stairwells leading into festering cesspools of rotting mule carcasses and molten lava, vast plains of dust punished by an unmerciful sun, men and women mumbling incoherently – having ripped their own tongues out of their mouths in a vain attempt to mute their chili-lust. The inhabitants of this grim land are left to eat pasta and corn dogs that are still cold in the middle.
My friends, I confess to all of you that I have no point today. My life is an odious, execrable heap of owl dung. This is essentially the summative message of the John Larroquette Project.
Hope you had a nice Christmas!