So-called Extra-Virgin Olive Oil, You Don't Love Me And You're Killing Me!

olive oil

You have no soul! You have no soul and this recently released report, from the UC Davis Olive Center, proved it to me! And I quote: “Sixty-nine percent of imported olive oil samples and 10 percent of California olive oil samples labeled as extra virgin olive oil failed to meet the IOC/USDA sensory (organoleptic) standards for extra virgin olive oil.” You’re a liar! You have no soul and no organoleptic standards!

I was at a party years ago and there was a guy there who worked for the New York Times dining section and he said, “I don’t know why anyone would ever buy non-extra-virgin olive oil. It’s not that much more expensive, and it’s just so much better.” So I figured, sure. Might as well go with the good stuff. In fact, I started using only imported. From Italy. Where they grow olives. AND, APPARENTLY, CHEAP LYING WHORES!

Sashaying around in your attractive stylish bottle, that green thing today, with the fancy “old-world” style print, your label with the words that promise such purity, and “a cold-processing method that prevents aroma from degrading, which led the International Olive Council and the United States Department of Agriculture to establish a sensory standard: it must have ‘excellent flavor and odor’ and contain no more than 0.8 grams of free fatty acid per 100 grams.”

Oh, it had nothing to do with what, the fact that you had foreign bodies in there?

You insult me with every look, every breath, every fucking selfish viscous drop you have. You make me want dress my salad in BACON FAT! You fuck my day up.

My soul is screaming because you don’t have one to join mine! I stopped using BUTTER to fry eggs because we had no spiritual common ground. You and I have none, zero!

When you go out in public it’s a fucking embarrassment to me. You look like a fucking salad dressing. You look like vegetable oil in heat. If you get used to make fucking pancakes, fucking packaged pancake mix, some fucking generic supermarket brand, not Aunt Jemima, not even fucking Bisquik. If you get used to make pancakes, it’ll be your fault, all right? Because you provoked it.

You know how press my lemons. You make me go Balsamic! And it’s not going to work with us. It’s not!

Say THANK YOU! Say thank you NOW because because I doubt you! I think you’re fucking gouging me. You should just smile and slather yourself over my ciabatta roll because I DESERVE IT! And I will burn the pantry down and bury you at the fucking Olive Garden. Yeah, when you’re there, you’re family all right! I will bury you at the Olive Garden, because I am capable of that!

I cannot be with an product like this! This is not somebody who loves me. This is some completely off-balanced, falsely packaged, deceitfully marketed product who absolutely hates me! Why do you hate me so much and what did I do to you?

You know what you are? You’re Canola. You’re fucking Canola oil.