General Order

In the interest of full disclosure, as I write this post, I am eating Chinese food. And I am fully clothed. I do, however, think I need a shower. This post, however, is going to relate more to the Chinese food and less about my state of dress/cleanliness.

Being an American Jew, I am hardwired to love Chinese food. I didn't ask to be born this way, and it isn't necessarily fair, but it's the truth of the matter. I like all kinds of Chinese food. I like Cantonese and Havanese and Szechuan and Youbetchuan. I'm just as happy getting take-out from some shitty hole-in-the-wall with actual holes-in-the-wall as I am sitting at some fancyballs Asian fusion joint with orange cloth napkins and sleek, raven-haired waitresses sprinting around the place dressed in black from their headbands to their toenails. I'll try pretty much anything, and I'm just as likely to order mussels and pork in Hong Kong garlic sauce as I am to order Lo Mein.

Last night was a Lo Mein night (and eight fried, fan-tail shrimp dumplings). My wife is away visiting her family and I needed Asian comfort food. That's Lo Mein, baby. House Lo Mein, to be precise: chicken, pork, beef, shrimp, all kinda mixed together, having a fucking crazy surf-and-turf orgy amongst the bed of noodles.

Oh, yeah. I broke Passover. D'oh.

Anyway, just to humor me-- take out the takeout menu from you favorite Chinese restaurant. If it's a traditional menu, with the red, green, and black colored type, there's probably dozens and dozens and dozens of things to choose from. Variety is, after all, the spice of life-- especially when lovingly doused with Kikkoman.

When I went to pick up my dinner last night, there were four people ahead of me in line. And, do you know what?

("What?")

All four of these motherfuckers were picking up General Tso's Chicken. How do I know that? Because the Asian schoolgirl behind the counter did everyone the kindness of reciting their order to them off the receipt, so the one douchebag in the orange sneakers could whine, "What about my General Tso's Chicken?" when that was not amongst the list of items she rattled off.

"Oh, sollie!" she said (I'm not making fun, that's actually what she said. I don't know who "Sollie" is-- "Solly" is my mechanic, though.) She darted into the kitchen and instantly reappeared holding a container that she shoved unceremoniously into his bag, probably crushing all of those oily little fried noodles that real Chinese people have probably only ever seen in movies. I was amazed at how fast she entered and came out of the kitchen with this schlock-o's General Tso's. It leads me to believe that Chinese food restaurants probably keep at least a hundred tubs of that shit in the kitchen at the ready every night starting at around 5:30pm.

Why?

Because everyfuckingbody in this stupid country orders that shit. I mean, really? Four out of four fuckers in front of me in line at the restaurant last night? That's all the statistical significance this amateur researcher needs.

Now-- this is America-- land of the free, home of the brave, alleged birthplace of General Tso's Chicken (which is kind of funny, if you think about it, and even if you don't think about it) and I acknowledge that people can eat whatever the hell they want as long as it isn't, like, someone else's pet or a cop's nose or something, but I just wish people would branch the hell out a little bit, you know. However, since American's cannot be trusted to venture out of their comfort zones, we need stricter action:

Here, on My Masonic Apron, I am calling for a NATIONAL MORATORIUM ON AND ABSTENTION FROM GENERAL TSO'S CHICKEN FOR ONE YEAR.

Fuckin' Mao would be proud. Especially since no one named fried chicken McNuggets after his dead ass.