Is it chili without beans? Chili is called chili because it’s made from chili beans. (NOTE: This is not true.) Chili contains beans, chunks of meat, peppers, onions, spices, and the goop that holds it all together. I always thought of it as the aether of chili. Removing the beans makes it a bolognese or a stew or a Manwich. Beanless chili is pretty much just meat soup. No beans? No chili.
Is a hot dog a sandwich? No. Just because two objects are made of the same materials doesn’t necessarily place them in the same category. Some walls, a roof, and drywall makes a house, but it also makes a dentist’s office. Both would fit under an overarching category of “structure,” but to call them equivalent at a parallel relationship is a taxonomical error. Just because two foodstuffs are made of starch-wrapped-around-meat doesn’t make them the same. Tacos aren’t sandwiches, and neither are calzones.
New York v. Chicago pizza. False binary. Chicago-style pizza is, in fact, not pizza. It is a casserole about which a city lies. Everyone outside the Greater Chicagoland Area knows that whatever the fuck this monster mash of a tomato nightmare that’s been placed in front of them is, it’s not pizza. Can you fold it over and eat it with your hands? No? Then it is not pizza. (And, yes, of course: you can technically fold anything over and eat it with your hands, but I’m talking about civilized humans. We are not CHUDs, people; let’s not behave like them.)
Pineapple on pizza? I can’t answer this. I’ve never had a bite of pineapple in my life. My father used to drink pineapple juice in the mornings. Tiny cans that he would set upside-down in the glass tumbler and it would glugglugglug out. The smell would hit me over my Rice Krispies. Sweetly pale and on-the-verge of rot. Like a different, better fruit had gone sour. And my father would turn to me every morning and say,
“Klaatu barada nikto.”
And I’d answer,
“This entire narrative is shoddy and poorly written.”
And then my dad would say,
“KLAATU BARADA NIKTO, YOU DISAPPOINTING MOTHERFUCKER!”
And then he would beat me using my brother as a cudgel.
Stop writing.
Okay.
[NOTE: With thanks to Mr. Completely for the idea.]
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