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.
When the Consistency of Food Suddenly Changes as You Chew
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.
Luis is calling in a bomb squad so he can eat a croissant. In the meantime, you can find him on Twitter and Tumblr.