It's wicked to mock the afflicted

I'm not nationalistic in any sense. Nationalism was a 19th century bad idea thought up by Kings and Prime Ministers to convince the poor and lesser nobility to die for the pointless, unending wars they needed to maintain an erection long enough to spew their syphilitic seed onto the widows and daughters of men with more honour than themselves.¹

Despite my abhorrence for flag waving nonsense, I have found an exception. I have found something that makes a little red, white and blue tear gently fall across my heavenward gazing face. It's BBQ sauce. God bless, America! I haven't given my old country a thought until a fellow ex-pat (thanks, Sam) brought back a bottle of "Sweet Baby Ray's", the dark red, smoky-flavoured blood of Christ himself.

S_ and I have been drowning everything in this stuff. We've had burgers three times this week for the excuse of dipping the already slathered burgers into the extra dollop on our plates. As soon as that furtive English sun reappears, there will be a sacrifice of fatten hen anointed in this liquor from west Chicago. Now if it was only possible to get the old style Shiner Bock, we could make proper libations to the gods of grilled meats.

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¹ Too much?