Sweet Baby Ray’s BBQ Sauce is Fucking Terrible

 Ok, I may as well just get this one out of the way now. Anyone who knows me in even very casual fashion is aware that I hate SBR (I’m gonna abbreviate for obvious reasons). I’m not quiet about it, I’m surely annoying to the point of obnoxious about it. It’s the best selling bbq sauce out there, and it’s a fucking travesty. 

I’m sure you’re wondering why I hate it so much. It’s honestly not because I don’t like it. For the record, I do not like it. It tastes like someone rubbed a cup of sugar into a half cup of mud pulled out of a roadside ditch. I do not like it.....because NOBODY LIKES IT. 

Nobody fucking likes this shit, and I know this for a fact. This isn’t even opinion. If you’re a fan of SBR, here are the things I immediately know about you:

1. You don’t give one singular microbic shit about the meat you eat. 

You don’t, because if you did, you would want to taste it. You would want to taste the result of your work. You fired up your grill, picked out your meat, seasoned it, watched it, cooked it with care.....If you did these things, then slapped your meat in a maroon bile pool of SBR, you wasted your fucking time, because you will get the same experience from a microwaved chicken burger. Here’s an acid test: how do you feel about people who put ketchup on steaks? Answer honestly. If that concept bothers you, rest assured that putting SBR on smoked meat is far worse. Smoked meat actually takes time, skill, and patience. Steaks are easy. 

2. You haven’t actually tried any real bbq sauces.

You mustn’t have, right? It’s likely not your fault. I can’t imagine trying a sauce that compliments meat only to go back to a sauce that completely covers any other flavor with sugar. Look, I get it....sugar has serious addictive properties. Let’s save your brain chemical binge for dessert. 

Introduction

 WELCOME TO FREE OPINIONS FOR DUMMIES

My name is Matthew.

This blog is one hundred percent written to satisfy my intestine tearing narcissism. I truly get diarrhea if I don't talk about my opinions enough. I feel a cold pain in my bowels, followed by a very warm pain near my rectum. I must clench, or I will mess myself. I don't even care if anyone really listens, I just have to say it. I must opine on fucking everything. So even if I am the singular person reading this absolute drivel, I'm still going to fucking write it. I'll read it. I'll read it at four AM, when I can't sleep and I need to brainsturbate over my own opinions, like they matter. I'll pretend important people read this. I'll probably picture Conan O' Brien reading this on an inflatable dinosaur in his pool, giggling and punching the air as he agrees with my gospel. I'll envision a day when some publisher puts this shit in some anthology and charges $70 for the hardcover long after I die of a very strange combination of syphilis and sea urchin toxins. In my dream I am in the Virgin Islands, so fuck you. I'm eating conch fritters and pouring dark rum over my head while I splash around like a retarded toddler in two feet of water, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and soiled trunks. That sounds better than your day, and you don't even have to describe it for me to know that with absolute certainty. Even your loyal pet dog knows I'm right. I can see it in his ever-so-honest eyes, looking at you like you're the emperor of a basket of sewage and a variable rate mortgage. He looks at your wife and sees a flesh pouch of demonic, life appropriating corporeal goo. He knows even better than you that her last hair appointment could have paid for a three day golf trip. So what if they would be public courses? Her holes see more balls than those courses do while you're not around, buddy.