When you get to hell—after they peel off all your skin, assign you an eternal torturer, walk you through the Scorpion Room, and force you to take a bath in molten lava—you're offered a brief, merciful break for lunch. You're led into a normal-looking room that contains a normal-looking table, and you're instructed to sit in a normal-looking chair. Oh, thank God, you think to yourself. Finally, a reprieve from my misery. All signs indicate that, impossible as it is to believe, the demons who run things down here are going to feed you some actual, regular food. A creaky metal door swings open; you hear some grunting in the kitchen; something goes boom. And then, out of the darkness, come a team of imps, wheeling your meal into the room on a moving cart, and it is this:
The grotesque culinary perversion you see before you is a 1,087-pound, 70-layer bean dip. It was made by Bush's Beans ahead of the Super Bowl, in an effort to break the Guinness World Record for the "largest layered dip," which the company succeeded in doing. It also succeeded in creating an image that will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life.
Bush's appears to be extremely proud of bringing this monstrosity into the world—of using a team of 19 people, who worked for a cumulative 227 hours, to ideate, cook, and construct a cylindrical tower of bean dips about as tall as a third grader. But Bush's should not be proud. Bush's should be ashamed.
Food is not supposed to be housed in an industrial vat. Food is not supposed to be capable of being eaten with a shovel. Food is not supposed to weigh more than a water buffalo. Food, in short, is not supposed to be a 1,087-pound, 70-layer bean dip.
Why does this exist? Who thought this was an OK thing to do? What the hell is wrong with these people? In the spirit of fairness, I guess Bush's should be given an opportunity to respond to these questions. Here's what the company had to say for itself.
“We know the classic 7-layer dip, made with Bush’s Beans, is a fan favorite for game day snacking celebrations," Kate Rafferty, the consumer experience manager for Bush’s, told Fox News. "Every year at this time we see an increase in searches for recipes, so this year we wanted to put a real twist on the traditional dip and do something fun for our fans while also showcasing the versatility of Bush’s Beans through a wide range of recipes included in the 70-layer bean dip.”
Now that we've gotten that out of the way, I think we can all agree that this vile concoction should never have been brought to life. To Bush's credit, Rafferty said the dip was "donated to a local charitable organization for all to enjoy," which is nice—but at the same time, that's disgusting. Whoever is on the receiving end of this gargantuan mound of beans, cheese, and whatever the hell else is in there would have almost certainly preferred a normal-sized dip, one with about 63 fewer layers that was, in turn, 63 times less revolting.
Congratulations, Bush's. You have broken the Guinness World Record for the "largest layered dip"—and with it, a now-irreparably shattered part of my psyche.
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