Wow.

Growing up with 3 sisters, Mayonnaise was a dirty word. It was unconscionable that the substance should end up on our refrigerator shelf and, by proxy, our asses. Mayo was, quite simply, a substance ugly people put on their sandwiches, paired with mystery ham and Kraft cheese.

That is, until I recently found myself on business in New Jersey. On business, and hungry in New Jersey. On Business, hungry, and with very limited options in a place that made even the shadiest New York deli look like Bouley. The options were limited, and apprehensive though I was, I opted for the Turkey wrap. Bracing myself for the worst, I took one bite: and it was heavenly.

It was the Mayo. That creamy substance that I've since learned could transform rat food into finger licking scrumptiousness. That gelatinous substance that quivers to life between two slabs of carbohydrates: my one true love, Mayo. I'd been waiting all this time for that special someone, and it dawned on me that that someone was something, and that thing was mayonnaise. Mayo was so goddamned good I want to marry it in a special ceremony and have Carrie Prejean speak out against us.

And then something else clicked for me. Something so monumental it made everything else before it meaningless:

This must be how heathens feel about eating Bacon.