My New (Disturbing) Favorite Food

First impression: I just found my new favorite food.

Essentially, it’s a combination of dill pickles and olives. Olives are wonderful. Especially when you don’t have to deal with those fucking pits. Pickles, meanwhile, are also awesome. They have a salty brininess that goes well with the delightful, fishy vagina flavor that olives so often have.

So, I stumbled across a jar of these things in the back of Astrid’s cupboard. The ultimate hodgepodge. The Korean taco of things you can find in jars.

I love these. I could eat about 1 million of them in a sitting. And still want more.

But, after I put about the third one in my mouth, my mind was riddled with questions.

Who thought of this? At what point in the evolution of our species did we figure the need to mix these two together? It seems obvious. The flavor works. It’s universal, like Pringles. But then, a third question wandered into my brain. Why jam a pickle inside of an olive?

I wonder if it was some sort of joke. Did a bunch of people just sit around and decide that it would not only be a tasty combination, but one that is objectively hilarious? I could go on. But as a denizen of the 21st-century, I feel it is more appropriate to communicate my emotions in the form of a meme.

Which then, of course, led me down a rabbit hole.

These could have been packaged separately, but in the same jar. They were not. This was the method of packaging and presentation that was determined. And so...

Are the pickles inserted by hand? If so, was the innuendo gradually lost on the pickle-pokers through the process of repetition alone? On their first day at the microscopic cucumber ramming factory, did they get a small chuckle out of their job, and over time, became numb to it? I hope not. That makes me just a little sad.

If this is not the method of shoving long things into a hole, is it because someone designed a machine that pokes the pickles into the olives? And if that is the case, that means that someone created this device, and shared it with his contemporaries. “Gentlemen, we have been plagued by an issue. But I think… I have a resolution. At long last, the masses will have what they crave... Salty, bulbous, delicious snacks, at a preservation of man hours and psychological torment that comes part and parcel of manufacturing this exquisite product of ours.”

What do this mechanist’s off-hours consist of? Is he (it’s a he) a gentleman pornographer, or is he the kind of guy who is not allowed within 100 meters of a school? The spectrum is defined thusly, and inflexibly, for such an aficionado of gherkin/olive penetration such as this.

Needless to say, I think that might be the problem with our society. These questions legitimately disturb me, and yet, I cannot stop shoving these micropenises into my mouth. I am part of the issue, here.

That is all I will leave you with, because I can’t think of a better second-final sentence.