It was a bleak and barren Sunday afternoon as I was walking to the caf to consume the nonbiodegradable paste there called “food.” As I strolled with my mid-section grumbling like the PTA, I stumbled upon a heap of chunky, viscous, and multicolored slob on the walkway behind Young Hall.
“Amazing!” I said to myself as I got on my knees. “What kind of transmorphic substance is this?”
The thick, yet runny, mush was an amalgamation of bright green and putrid yellow, with dots of red, brown, and purple. In the substance, there were nuggets of some semi-solid material that resembled morsels of corn kernels. It looked like Guy Fieri, if he was a mystery puree.
In my head, I knew it could only be one of two things: the inorganic gruel (under the intentionally vague title of “soup”) served to us with a $2,300 price tag or pure vomit from some post-Winter Formal emesis.
Yet, being a philosophy and biology double major scrub, I could not let my intuitions leave the substance a twofold mystery. What was needed, as John Locke (probably) said, was “hard, cold evidence.” It was time for some empirics.
Being on the ground, I decided a taste test was in order. Reaching out with my pinky finger, I scooped a decent portion of the decomposing goop. Glistening, the foul gunk smelled like the corpse of Elvis. However, any proper scientific inquiry demands rigid sensual verification–so I licked my pinky.
The taste, O Heavenly Father! Eating the street splooge was an out-of-body experience. Like a Pitbull album, it was beyond human comprehension. But I got a story to write, so I might as well describe it in first-year layman’s terms: Imagine you have a bowl of rice. Now pour old chocolate milk, undigested Orange Julius, and the innards of a Costco rotisserie chicken into the bowl. Blend that mixture and put it under a heat lamp for a week, and you will have the unspecified waste that I gobbled.
I immediately flew back from the sludge, panting heavily as the taste still wrapped around my being with enduring strength. I realized that this was no ordinary substance. It was some advanced level government sentient Blob that hypnotizes poor and unsuspecting pre-meds into feasting on its flaccid body.
Was it inside me? Was it laying eggs and absorbing my body? I mean, maybe it could shed that Freshman 50, but I couldn’t risk my life on that hope.
I sprinted toward my room, hoping to flush the substance out with my special drink (a refined mixture of Monster, Mountain Dew, and gasoline), killing whatever amoeba it had released into me. I proceeded to pass out in the middle of Moore Hall (nothing out of the ordinary).
After waking up, it felt like that rancid experience was a food fantasy. Trying to forget about whatever I did, I went on to the caf, hoping to fill my stomach with regret and sodium.
As I perused our food options, I stumbled to the soup section. As I saw the label of their “specialty soup,” I knew my nightmare was reality.
Today’s Special Soup: Vomit Corn Chowder
So, dear reader, to answer the question posed in the headline: Yes.
