Hell, I’d hate Americans if all I had to judge them on was what I see on the supermarket shelf. I’m thinking this as I stare at a jar (yes, jar) of brown tubes that are advertised as “American Hot Dogs.” Floating about in a way that reminds me of something from the Medical Oddities museum in D.C., even the stars & stripes on the label can’t help these things be construed as anything CLOSE to food. From the point of view of the Brits though, they must love it. They’re thinking: “We give them their own country, and this is the best they come up with?”
We all know how in cinema, the really, really bad stuff goes straight to video, right? The last few American Pies, Road House 2, pretty much any time a cinematic series is in its death throes? Well, a similar thing happens in the food world. There are clearly some disturbing food products out there, and the ones that don’t make the cut, be it because they come with warnings on the label to avoid prolonged exposure, or are advertised as “also great as a disinfectant!” Well, those products go straight to foreign countries, to places like Thailand, where their Red Bull is sold over the counter…..in pharmacies. Or, apparently, to Scotland, as I gaze at the embryonic tubular monstrosities set before me in the…..condiment aisle? What? “Would you like salt and vinegar with your chips sir?” “No thanks, I’ll have hot dog instead.” Then they watch as you try to club together limp hot dog and limp French fry…er, chip, giving those chimps from 2001 a run for their money in the motor skill development department. Should you ever encounter jarred hot dogs, my friends, walk on by. Pay them no heed. They’d probably be more useful stuffed under doors to make them less drafty, or even as a swizzle stick in a slurry cocktail for the pigs on the farm. Instead, head over to the aisle of flour and sugar, where “baking needs” has been renamed “frying needs (I’m not kidding about this),” so the Scots know the quickest way to get that fattening protective layer of goodness around whatever their straining heart desires. “Life Slowing You Down? Get to death faster with any one of our delicious fried foods!”
Food is life. Duh. Sorry, not trying to blow your mind with any of this stuff, but it’s true. So supermarkets should cater to this belief, have things divided up according to ones place in life. The newborn aisle, easy enough, with mushy peas, pureed foods, the usual slop stuff. The “I got dumped aisle,” with ice cream, junk food, and it would be conveniently located right by the alcohol aisle, which is kind of the multi-purpose room of the school of food, and with the “holy crap, I’m drunk/stoned” aisle. And then you could have the aisle devoted to the unique aspects of life, like “Food for those with third nipples,” or “I like the way ketchup feels on my skin.” It could be a circular-shaped store, so the “I’m old” section mingles with the “I’m wicked young” section. I’m opening up the floor to other suggestions here.
By the way, supermarkets are really not fans of you taking pictures in the store. The only way I got out alive was by getting all Genghis Khan on the security guard with a frozen leg of lamb.
