Once upon a time in a remote corner of the universe there was a planet called Earth, and hundreds of millions of years after the planet cooled and solidified, life forms began to develop, and after hundreds of millions of more years, humanoid figures came into being and roamed about, searching for food, warding off deadly predators, surviving day-by-day, never knowing when a poisonous snake would strike, never knowing when a deadly infection would take hold, never knowing anything.
Many more years passed and there appeared on the scene food writers, first writing in the printed forms, and then making their way onto the internet, where a new form of amateur-enthusiast-professional was born. To explain the idiocy of these internet food writers could take volumes, but to sum up shortly: they were ridiculous, self-important, and perfect symbols of the absolute meaninglessness of the modern age.
Sometimes, late at night, these idiot internet food writers would wake up in cold sweats and walk to their bathrooms and stare in the mirror and ask themselves "who am I?" and have no real response. Well, they could say they have x number of Twitter followers or were invited to the latest soft opening of a hip new restaurant or wore really tastefully simple shirts or that a lot of other really cool food internet people really liked them. They could say that!
Let us turn our attention to one such internet food idiot, Nathan, who recently went to Mr. Dips, a new burger cart on the grounds of the very cool William Vale Hotel, where the creative class stays on trips to New York. He writes: "The burger is a study in simplicity. Griddled to perfection, the mineral funk of the beef is evident, and the bun is a perfect and simple bun - is it a Martin's potato roll? The cheese brings a viscous tang to the proceedings."
Wait. Is this really what the human story has come to? Playfully writing about the mineral beefiness of a cheeseburger? Who are we?