The Origins of Rymerica, or, The Essence of Man

Once, I was a child. I thought like a child. I acted like a child. I held the parmesan cheese container to my lips and drank its granular goodness. I did not like barbecue sauce. I might not have liked any sauce. But bbq sauce tasted too sharp for my young tongue. Like licking the business end of a knife made of wasabi. I wonder if all bbq sauces were just brown and vinegar, or if those were the only kind we purchased.

Furr's, the Winco of the southwest but with fresh tortillas, was somewhere between Bethel and Ai. It was there I met Bull's-Eye. The good people at Kraft mixed smoke, magic, delicious taste, and high fructose corn syrup to make a miracle sauce. And it was there, like Abram and Lot, all other bbq sauces and I went our separate ways. They actually gave out samples of it. I think they knew no one would buy bbq sauce otherwise. The color was perfect, the texture was perfect, the TASTE was perfect. It has inspired many poems and works of art. Not the least of which follows here:

Bull's-Eye in the North

Bull's-Eye in the South

Doesn't matter where

Just pour it in my mouth

Bull's-Eye in the morning

Bull's-Eye noon and night

When everything go wrong

Bull's-Eye makes it right

Bull's-Eye tastes so good

Bull's-Eye tastes so great

And now I'm addicted to all varieties of sauces.

If it wasn't for Bull's-Eye, I wouldn't be the man I am today.

Thank you.