Marcus Jones

Contributor

‘Chunky’ soup is the least appealing thing ever.

Soup that self-identifies as ‘chunky’. Gross. (Kyler Emerson)

There are things in this world that are just not desirable: pineapple on pizza, the hideous, grotesque display of Lovecraftian horror that is non-Korean mukbangs, and finally and those weird denizens of Toronto that crawl through sewers and devour whole tables.

But I’m not gonna talk about them right now.

The previously mentioned atrocities pale in comparison to one thing – and that is chunky soup.

Now, I do believe that soup, especially with chicken in it, is good for the soul. It’s good on a rainy day, heals your cold, and can be shoved into a thermos and enjoyed at work. Soup is the most versatile and adaptable form of food. Nothing ruins the comforting aura that this warm meal brings, other than describing it as ‘chunky.’

This sensation is equivalent to being really hungry and seeing a Krispy Kreme box in front of you. The heavenly taste of the doughnut fills your mind. You can already feel the immense satisfaction and relief that overcomes you. You lunge for the doughnut box akin to a rabid consumer snatching a lone roll of toilet paper. You rip open the lid, anticipating the blissful sight of doughnuts, and then your eyes fixate on the empty box, complete with oil-circles lining the bottom to remind you of the luxury you were denied. The sun is setting and you’re getting cold.

That is exactly how it feels when soup is described as ‘chunky.’

To cap it all off, soup is usually liquid. Depending on what kind it is, it can also be thick. But chunky?

No.

Just no.

I don’t fancy chewing on soup. In fact, if I’m chewing on soup, it should be pieces of meat or vegetables within said soup, not the soup itself. The only kind of chewable liquid that is justifiable in this timeline is the Slurpee. Many summers have passed, and no one that I’ve known has had a problem chewing on Slurpee juice.

My point stands.