It is officially Spicy Week 2011! Well, sort of. It would be the kick-off to Spicy Week 2011 had I not forgotten to take the first round of photos off Keepitcoming's camera...but in lieu of that, I present you with an appetizer. A free appetizer. That's right- Spicy Week is so intense that it puts eight days in a week. Just like The Beatles but better.
There's a serious desperation at the Dollar Store. It's like an animal shelter where all the ugly ones get shot by a firing squad. All the products that nobody wants are begging to be taken home- Albert's Nut House sliced almonds, Paula Deen's cupcake mixes, and...this. God damn it. Of course I was suckered in. Somehow, every Spring, this blog drives me to eating some form of canned meat. Motherfucker.
Everything about this product screams insecurity. From the clip-art flames on the front of the box, proclaiming "HOT!" to the side arrows that beg me to open the box "NOW!" I can't help but feel a little rushed. I want my Brunswick snack thing to ease me into this process. Light a few candles. Maybe pop in a Blu-Ray of Couples Retreat and let its hands wander. But not this. Tonight, Brunswick went Dutch for a small pizza and fingered me in the back of his mom's station wagon. I feel a little dirty and I haven't even gone all the way yet.
Opening the box, everything inside is sterile, as though in preparation for the potential carnage yet to come. It comes with a strange non-spoon, spoon-shaped knife object that confuses me. It's really more of a crude spade. And then...the chicken. I open it away from me like a grenade. Immediately, its smell permeates the entire room. If my cat liked hot wings, this would be something I'd feed her. It smells and looks like something I'd find in the cat food section, and I'm hard pressed to not believe that I haven't accidentally switched cans of something.
I ate it. This isn't quite Buffalo. More like a bad area of Detroit. The first and only bite tasted mainly of sauce, despite having an ample number of florescent celery chunks. And the sauce tasted like a mid-range Sloppy Joe sauce, with a sweet tomato flavor, and a horrible, vinegary kick at the end. I cleared my throat multiple times. The chicken might not have actually been chicken. It could have been chunks of congealed mayonnaise. The sauce masked everything, cracker included, and is causing a small, burning meteor to form in my gastrointestinal tract. Five minutes later, there's a strange metallic taste in my mouth and I vaguely wonder if my throat is bleeding. Buffalo chicken salad sounds like an excellent concept- chicken salad is great, buffalo chicken is better. But this is just shameful.
There's a serious desperation at the Dollar Store. It's like an animal shelter where all the ugly ones get shot by a firing squad. All the products that nobody wants are begging to be taken home- Albert's Nut House sliced almonds, Paula Deen's cupcake mixes, and...this. God damn it. Of course I was suckered in. Somehow, every Spring, this blog drives me to eating some form of canned meat. Motherfucker.
Everything about this product screams insecurity. From the clip-art flames on the front of the box, proclaiming "HOT!" to the side arrows that beg me to open the box "NOW!" I can't help but feel a little rushed. I want my Brunswick snack thing to ease me into this process. Light a few candles. Maybe pop in a Blu-Ray of Couples Retreat and let its hands wander. But not this. Tonight, Brunswick went Dutch for a small pizza and fingered me in the back of his mom's station wagon. I feel a little dirty and I haven't even gone all the way yet.
Opening the box, everything inside is sterile, as though in preparation for the potential carnage yet to come. It comes with a strange non-spoon, spoon-shaped knife object that confuses me. It's really more of a crude spade. And then...the chicken. I open it away from me like a grenade. Immediately, its smell permeates the entire room. If my cat liked hot wings, this would be something I'd feed her. It smells and looks like something I'd find in the cat food section, and I'm hard pressed to not believe that I haven't accidentally switched cans of something.
I ate it. This isn't quite Buffalo. More like a bad area of Detroit. The first and only bite tasted mainly of sauce, despite having an ample number of florescent celery chunks. And the sauce tasted like a mid-range Sloppy Joe sauce, with a sweet tomato flavor, and a horrible, vinegary kick at the end. I cleared my throat multiple times. The chicken might not have actually been chicken. It could have been chunks of congealed mayonnaise. The sauce masked everything, cracker included, and is causing a small, burning meteor to form in my gastrointestinal tract. Five minutes later, there's a strange metallic taste in my mouth and I vaguely wonder if my throat is bleeding. Buffalo chicken salad sounds like an excellent concept- chicken salad is great, buffalo chicken is better. But this is just shameful.
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