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.