Roast Beef Spread: An Epic Story With Award-Winning Photographs

Earlier this evening, while on a grocery store run for PB&J fixin's, I happened to stumble across a can of mystery meat for sale at the low, low price of $1.87. It was called, vaguely, "Roast Beef Spread" and the packaging had on it only those words, a picture of a cartoon devil, and a sandwich that looked patently unappealing. Because I didn't have any plans for upcoming blog posts, and because trying gross foods and taking pictures of the process is always "a hoot," I plunked down the cash and walked away the proud owner of some sort of meat-ish crap in a can. Meatish crap I was about to eat, I should say.

Here's the can, seen posed in front of the blue walls of our living room while resting atop our copy of Leaving Las Vegas, all of which was done to accent the photograph's award-winning qualities. I think you'll agree that I've pretty much made Diane Arbus my beeyotch with this one:



The Roast Beef Spread looked daunting, I'll admit; with it's contents still unconfirmed, I was left to ponder what lay beyond it's waxy wrapping and army-grade, pop-top can. Needless to say, the anticipation got me pretty excited:



Of course, I'd be lying if I said there weren't other factors involved in my excitement:



After I'd calmed down a little bit (not too much; don't want to kill the buzz), I finally removed the wrapping and opened the can. Within, I found a substance that looked quite a lot like bean dip, and just a little bit like diarrhea:



Needless to say, it smelled a lot closer to the latter, or it would have were it possible to poop out a substance that perfectly mingled the pungent scent of human waste with the homey scent of Campbell's Vegetable Beef soup:



Man, I've got a big nose. I'm like if Gonzo was a fat guy. Anyway, after giving it the ol' smell test (final grade: D-), I decided to plate the dish. And by "plate the dish," I mean, "smear some of the Roast Beef Spread on to a piece of white bread and plop it down on my girlfriend's new bamboo cutting board so I can take another award-winning photograph, still-life style:"



Note how the color of the Roast Beef Spread almost exactly matches the color of the cutting board. If that doesn't tell you that it's made with the finest of processed ingredients, then I don't know what will. I moved into the bathroom (for the mirror; don't get any ideas) to document the first bite, all artistic-like:



It's like the camera lens is my eye, man. It's totally a commentary on our "Big Brother" society. Down with the government!!! Also, it's really yellowish because the light in our bathroom is weird. Whatever though, I meant it to look like that. So the first bite went down and I was immediately struck with intense flavors of low-grade beef, as well as some seasonings that haven't been used in food since the FDA came into existence. Here's me with a mouthful of lousy:



Thankfully, I had something to take the disgusting taste of failure out of my mouth:



Now, to be fair to the ass-spread, it was actually, technically edible. Because I don't believe in wasting food (and because I'm a fat ass), I did go ahead and choke the rest of it down. Liberally chasing it with my mouth-cleanser of choice, naturally. Again, it was edible. But only just. No word yet on what it's currently doing to my insides, but I imagine it's going to end up being a scenario that's a lot like what happened to the Nostromo once they cut the face-grabber's leg with the bone saw. Since I'll probably be dead in a few hours (or violently and spectacularly ill, at the very least), I should go ahead and give the Roast Beef Spread my final review:

No good, Roast Beef Spread. You are foul and you are unpleasant. Although at $1.87, you are admittedly a bargain.