I am such a bitter little wench.

Okay. I have to get this off my chest and there's no other forum for me to do so in. I'll probably end up taking this post down at the end of the day to protect myself in the event that one of my friends stumbles across this blog and recognizes me in spite of my alias.

However, I just can't not say this SOMEWHERE, because I am indeed that big of a bitch.

Attention: Friend #143's Husband

I realize that you are from Texas, and as such you feel that this gives you a superior sense of barbeque. That it makes you, in fact, a coinnesseur. That your taste buds have been trained and honed by virtue of being born Texan.

I see that you own a very special grill, welded together in some arcane ritual meant, no doubt, to give honor to the gods of outdoor cooking and cause them to bless your meat with flavor. I also see that you take great care and pride in the preparation of barbeque sauce, and marinade, and smoke. Clearly you are a man who intends that the meat served off his grill will be a thing of great beauty and deliciousity, and as such you feel that we ought to appreciate the results.

I got news for ya. You are not a pit master. You are not a cowboy. You're a whitebread overweight suburban dad with a grill and an apron. And you don't know what in the hell you're doing.

You don't make barbeque sauce by throwing together the contents of six different bottles of pre-made sauce, particularly when you have already marinaded the meat in a liquid made up of the contents of six different bottles of pre-made marinade. One of each would be fine. All these flavors together do not a symphony make; what they make is white noise. They're cancelling each other out. You've just spent $20 on bottles of junk for meat that would have tasted better with a little brining, a spice rub, and some homemade sauce. Congratulations: your barbeque is as bland as you are.

Incidentally, I've tasted your spaghetti sauce, too. I realize that not only are you from Texas, but you are Italian by heritage. Your ancestors are rolling in their graves because of this sauce you're so proud of.

STOP COOKING. STOP IT NOW. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STEP BACK, TAKE A CLASS, LEARN WHAT THINGS ARE SUPPOSED TO TASTE LIKE.