Milkshake Snob

(The FireVaney takes the stage.)

Good evening. 
That looks refreshing. 
I hope you’re enjoying it. 
But I can only hope. 
Because when it comes right down to it, I don’t know a thing about your taste buds. And that’s sad. It’s sad because if I knew about your taste buds… 
and your taste buds… 
and your taste buds… 
we’d all have a fighting chance at achieving global taste bud harmony.

But why would we want that?

We’d want global taste but harmony because it’s become impossible to agree on anything. Our culture is so fragmented that society is unraveling. We can’t get on the same page anymore because we can’t even agree on what the page is. How can you get on the same page about anything when the other guy (or gal, or nonbinary carbon based unit) …hates paper?

So I say: 
Forget the page. 
Just… recycle it.

If nothing else, you can tell Larry that you made some progress on the deal. 

Alec Baldwin as Larry: 
“Hey kid, you make any progress on that deal?”

 Young Ed Norton as You: 
“I… recycled the page.” 

Alec Baldwin as Larry: 
“Ha! That’s showin’ ‘em.” 

Alec Baldwin as Larry pats Young Ed Norton as You on the back. (And if "you," dear reader, are female, then please picture Young Ed Norton in a wig doing his best Tina Fey impersonation.)

But a good negotiator seeks common ground, or so I’ve read.

Which brings me back to taste buds.

What with all the woes of the world — the poverty, disease, drought, famine, strife — wouldn’t it be something if every man, woman, child, and nonbinary dude/ette could agree on just one thing? That, for example, in the few remaining food courts across America, Popeye’s spicy cajon chicken sandwich is the best spicy cajon chicken sandwich currently on the market? United in our appreciation of flavor, we could perhaps drive the likes of Chick-Fil-A out of business.

Uh-oh. Might’ve divided the room with that comment.

Hey, look, it was a bad joke. It wasn’t even a joke. It was a non-joke. That’s why you didn’t laugh. It’s very hip to be “non-” (you name it) these days. In fact, I plan to come out as a non-non (something) on my birthday. Like perhaps a non-nonentity, or a non-nonfat latte, or a non-nonet, or a non-nonfiction novel, or a non-nonpareil. If you’re a regular reader, you shouldn’t be non-nonplused. But if this is your first close encounter with the FireVaney kind, maybe quit now, while you’re ahead. You don’t want to end up like Roy Neary. (BTW: Spielberg owes us a sequel before Richard Dreyfuss jumps ship for the Cocoon crew.)

Alas, I don’t know about your taste buds.

But as far as my taste buds are concerned, let me make absolutely, positively crystal clear this one little thing: A standard / conventional / traditional chocolate milkshake is a blended concoction of milk, chocolate syrup, and vanilla ice cream. (Whipped cream and maraschino cherry are optional, IMO.)

(The FireVaney sighs.)

Well, sadly, ladies and gentlemen, just prior to the turn of the century, the generally accepted recipe I’ve described above inexplicably changed. That, or I seem to’ve had a run of bad luck. Or — and this might strike you as somewhat of a stretch — when ice cream purveyors from across the galaxy gathered (in secret) at their annual convention in the old Saab dealership in Perrysville, Indiana, a vocal minority petitioned Ben Cohen, Jerry Greenfield, Burt Baskin, Irv Robbins, Reuben Häagen, and Rose Dazs to toy with my taste buds. Why my taste buds in particular? Because they know that I’m a stickler. Or, in light of my historically paltry contributions to tip jars everywhere, they felt the need to seek revenge.

Or not. 

Whatever the reason, since the turn of the century, they’ve repeatedly served me milkshakes made with chocolate syrup and chocolate ice cream—and probably chocolate milk, too.

I am sorry… 

For Chrissake, why not just microwave a Hershey bar and pour it over an ice cube?

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