When I was a barely-English-speaking little snot-nosed kid I thought “barbecue” was a cute Barbie doll. I would hear the word and think, “why does everyone like these fucking things?” On a related note, one time my sister wouldn’t let me play Barbie with her friends, so I walked into the room and peed on all the Barbies while they went to the kitchen to get some snacks.
If orgasms were tangible, I’d cover them in BBQ sauce.
Back then, when spanking wasn’t as taboo as douchie new age moms make it out to be, I was smacked as a punishment for just about anything. Sometimes a hand wasn’t enough, a belt wasn’t available, and the anger from my parents was so intense they couldn’t think straight. The solution was barbaric; rip a twig from a tree and leave a mistletoe-like mark on my ass cheeks, throw a sandal, or just threaten very loudly with creative metaphors. Eventually I learned to behave myself and not urinate on non-urinatric objects thanks to my father’s “te voy a sonar” (translated to “I’m going to sound you”) warnings. My mom’s favorite was “te voy a pegar más que un tambor en fiesta,” which means “I’m going to hit you more than a drum at a party.” That’s a weird one. I can’t remember the last time I went to a party and saw a dude just wailing on a drum.
Seriously, who parties with a drum?
Back to barbecue. Eventually I learned what it really was, and ever since then I have learned to put BBQ sauce on just about everything to increase its awesomeness level. If orgasms were tangible, I’d cover them in BBQ sauce. And my semen. “Barbekkake” is what I would call it.
I work near Sparky’s, and when I heard a BBQ place was opening up a block from my office I did that inward fist pump that stupid little girl used to do on Full House. Fuck, what’s her name. Damn it, this is going to bother me.
What does an inward fist pump look like?
I went in and found a dude with an apron completely covered in BBQ sauce working the register. There was another guy in the back smothering smoked chicken with BBQ sauce while holding the sandwich buns with his other hand, which was gloveless. Jackpot. The only thing I love more than a food service employee handling food without taking the proper sanitary precautions of wearing a glove is a food service employee that does. So, like, just one thing above it, that’s not so bad.
To be honest though, that kind of behavior doesn’t really bother me. I mean, it should, because when I think of some of the things I do with my hands throughout a regular day I would advise others to take precautions and nuke my hands from orbit, just to be safe.
I’ve had just about everything they serve there. Their ribs are great. A 12-year-old boy from Thailand couldn’t make Mark Foley salivate more than you would just by smelling the ribs. Their cornbread is pretty bitchin’ too. It makes me glad Europeans slaughtered the Native Americans because the knowledge of corn, its uses, and its cultivation became known to southern cuisine.
JOHN STAMOS! That’s the little girl from Full House I was thinking of.