You spend enough hours in your car to develop a tactile relationship with it. You know every vibration that thing makes, and you know it because you can feel those vibrations with your ass. Man and machine, fused together via ass, one informing the other; the car alerting the ass of any abnormalities, the ass informing the car of what we've recently eaten. We can feel the health of our car. We don't need flashing lights and symbols -- just an ass, and possibly a brain to process the ass' messages.
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And possibly a seat warmer.
So when your car vibrates in a slightly wrong way, the abnormality is detected by the ass and the ass relays those signals to the brain. The brain -- the astute, even-tempered leader of the organs -- rips this message off its antique stock ticker tape machine and reads it carefully through the smoke billowing from its smoldering pipe tobacco. The brain "hmm"s with curiosity at the ass' message. It rises from its leather chair with dark cherry wood trim and brass studs and, with thoughtful, deliberate steps, makes its way to the P.A. system it uses to relay messages of action to the rest of the body. It flicks the switch into the "On" position and clears its throat:
"THE ENGINE'S DEAD YOU'RE GONNA DIE AND HERE'S A RANDOM MEMORY OF THAT TIME YOU SHIT YOUR PANTS IN KINDERGARTEN. TA-TA!"
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"Bladder, Colon -- you have my permission to evacuate."
In that brief, ultimately uneventful moment, logic and composure -- longtime members of the brain's brain trust -- flee to their escape pods and jettison to the nearest life-sustaining vessel, which is probably why some dogs are so smart. The brain pours itself two -- no, this is a special moment -- three fingers of scotch and wistfully looks around, taking it all in one last time. It runs its finger along the leather of its chair and smiles. "It was an honor, my lady." (You're a dude.) It cries as sparks fire out from instrument panels.
When your car farts, a little imminent death is the only eventuality.
It was an honor serving under you, Brain, you stupid piece of shit.
The only surprise you typically get with food happens at the first bite: You're surprised to find that it either sucks or is great. Every bite after that is a continuation of one of those two. And that's fantastic. Reliability is wonderful. You can gulp down the rest of that cannoli knowing that each successive bite will make you go "mmmm" or "gaaaahhh," just like the first. Some foods will start off as "mmmm" and transition into "gaaaahhh" over the course of several bites. That's OK, too; the dish was fine, but after your tongue and your brain talked it over a bit, they decided they're going to go in a different direction.
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"Tongue, I do believe we are consuming shit. Please confirm."
Then there are the meals that begin as "mmmm," retain "mmmm" status for a number of bites, and then take a sharp turn into "gaaaahhh." The flavor didn't change, you didn't suddenly grow to hate its presentation, the smell is fine ... but you felt crunch. As far as you know, there isn't supposed to be crunch in this dish. If you wanted crunch, you would have ordered crunch. You were sold on this being a crunch-free meal. And yet, crunch. It doesn't have to be a crunch; it can be a sudden hardness or irregular softness. Whatever the sensation, it wasn't there before and shouldn't be there at all.
There are two ways you can go from here:
1) You declare this meal over and toss it out. You believe every meal should have an even consistency consistently.
2) You hold back your vomit and horror as you play mouth detective. You take slow, thoughtful bites as you deeply analyze the texture, trying to replicate that horrible moment, trying to imagine the size of the cockroach you just chewed.
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This isn't a cognitive overreaction like with a weird car vibration. This is a visceral horror. A sudden shift in chew consistency bypasses the brain and pierces the hull of our primal instincts. This isn't an attack you intellectualize; it's primitive survival, clear and simple. You lash out violently, as if you were 20 years into a savage post-apocalypse and a mutant squirrel is trying to skewer your baby with its tongue spear. The survival instinct that will keep your baby un-kebabed in the future hellscape is the same one that makes you gag as moist wads of mostly chewed pig slop fall from your mouth in the middle of an Arby's when your teeth sink into a weird thing. "Gaaaahhh" is too soft a sound for this horror. Scrunt, maybe? Yeah, you scrunt. You scrunt so hard.