Finger Lickin' Bad

It's been a while since I've done a post about some odd thing I've photographed. But it appears I've done way too much pontificating about advertising, politics, Jews and the joys of parenthood, that it's long overdue.

I spotted this van in the parking lot at Bristol Farms in Westchester.

I go there for lunch almost everyday following my daily almost-mile swim. My wife calls me an annoying creature of habit. I like to think of it as a demonstration of persistence and discipline.

In any case, that's where I spotted this minivan advertising the services of the Sauce Goddess, who flies under the banner, "if you don't lick your fingers, someone else will."

Not the most appetizing imagery.

I'm pretty sure I won't taking the sauce goddess up on her promise. You see when it comes to sauces, BBQ, salsa, and sundry condiments, I prefer they not be made in someone's jerry-rigged kitchen or low rent garage.

In fact, I like my foodstuff's the way I like my prescription grade narcotic medicines, made in a factory, under the watchful eye of the FDA.

Besides, no tomato sauce could ever be so good that my wife, or my daughters, or any of my friends would willingly jam my hand into their pie-hole any time soon.

After all, they know where those fingers have been.