Ketchup and the Angry 7-Eleven Man

I have to admit, I've been obsessing over ketchup lately and I'm wondering what kinds of god-awful brands they must stock in 7-Eleven. Let's go look.

God I hate these places. They're so brightly lit they look kind of like a surgical room gone horribly wrong, with fumes of bad meat drifting in and out.

Speaking of bad meat, here's a couple of Venereal Diseased Hot Dogs. Deeelish!

Aaaahhhh!

Okay, I think I see the condiments section at the end of this aisle.

Well, I apologize to 7-Eleven, all they stock is Heinz. That still doesn't make up for their scary-ass rib sandwich, though!

Speaking of scary-ass things, seconds after I shot this a guy grabbed my arm and screamed out, "What are you doing?"

"Let go of my arm," I said pushing him away. "I'm taking pictures of ketchup," I told him when he released his grip on me.

"No pictures in here!" He yelled at me, even though he was less than half a foot away from me.

"I'm just taking pictures of ketchup," I told him amazed at how worked up he was.

"No pictures in my store," He continued to bark out in a Tourette's-like manner.

We argued back and forth and I told him it was a public place, he asked if I would like it if he came to my home and took pictures and I told him I could care less. Then I told him I lived two blocks away and invited him over to take pictures of my ketchup. He declined.

After awhile it got old, so I left, pounded on the window and took a photo of the angry 7-Eleven Man.

And once more with feeling! Goodbye, asshole!

Ketchup

I've written about the ketchup situation in the Greater Peoria Airport before and here I go again. Ever since I was a little kid, all I would eat is Heinz ketchup.

The first time I ever was going to spend the night at a friend's house when I was a little kid was a big deal and I was pretty excited. My friends name was Pat King and his family was real nice and we had fun playing outside before we got called in for supper. But when I sat down at the dinner table and I looked and saw a bottle of Hunt's ketchup, I feigned a stomach ache and asked them to call my parents to come pick me up. After about a twenty minute wait, while silently cursing Hunt's ketchup and Pat and his entire stinking family, my dad dutifully pulled up, I got in the car and he looked at me. I looked at him and said one word: "Hunt's."

He glared at the King household in furious anger, looked back at me and nodded in sage father and son agreement and floored it out of their driveway. When it comes to ketchup, you either know these things or you don't.

As vile as Hunt's is, I can't imagine being desperate enough to put Crown ketchup on anything except a grilled baby's butt. Because who eats a baby's butt except a drooling, twice-crazed, psycho-baby cannibal killer? And he probably spells "ketchup," "catsup."

Some things I'll just never understand. Crown "ketchup" is one of them. Shame on you Peoria Airport. Shame on you.