A fear of confined spaces is called claustrophobia.
A fear of the number 13 is called triskaidekaphobia.
A fear of ketchup is called—
– Wait, what? Ketchup? You mean the condiment, ketchup? The red one?
Yeah, that’s right. I don’t like to admit it, but here goes: I have a highly irrational fear of ketchup. Even the green one too.
Having a fear of ketchup is apparently so rare that there is no accepted term for it on the internet. Answers.com tells me that the proper term is “mortuusequusphobia.” What the fuck? If you break it down, mortuusequusphobia sounds like a fear of an undead, naked Daniel Radcliffe making love to horses. To me, that is 100% fucking rational.
All Harry Potter apocalypse scenarios aside, ketchup sucks. I’ve hated it ever since I can remember. If ketchup comes on any restaurant meal I order, I send it back for a new one. If there’s any trace of ketchup on my plate, I ask for a new one. If there’s a bottle of catsup (haha catsup) on the table, I have to push it over to the other side, but I can’t touch it with my hands, only with my sleeves. If somehow ketchup manages to find its way onto me, I have to wash my hands like Lady Macbeth until that damned spot comes out. I’m so neurotic about ketchup, I make Woody Allen in… well… uh… anything look like Vin Diesel in… well… uh… anything.
Sound obsessive? You bet. Publicly embarrassing? It has been, of course. In high school, some “friends” (definitely no longer my friends) who knew of my fear decided to wave some Heinz Devil SemenTM in my face at an Applebee’s. Can you guess which of the following happened?
a) I jumped backwards out of the booth onto my ass on the floor
b) I flailed and knocked the bottle out of my friend’s (definitely no longer my friend’s) hand, breaking it on the table
c) A large crowd of people, including young children, old farts, and a group of nuns getting drunk at the bar, gathered around and laughed at me
d) Painfully, all of the above
If you picked choice d, correct! Which would also mean that I lost. Some ketchup splattered on me and my clothes. You know the drill. It’s safe to say that I spent the next few hours uncomfortably wet and wishing I had gone to Friday’s. Which has plastic ketchup bottles. And better appetizers but worse entrees. Really depends what kind of mood you’re in.
It’s funny that I hate ketchup, because to be quite honest, I love tomatoes. So if I tried it, you might expect me to like it, right? Rewind to 2 years back. I was coming home from a concert with a certain rumbler (whose name rhymes with “snakes”) when we stopped at a Burger King. He was eating some ketchup on his fries, when out of nowhere, I wanted some. As cocksure as Joakim Noah at a World’s Ugliest Man contest, I dug in and ate one fry, with one miniscule amount of ketchup.
And the verdict?
Well, the world didn’t end. But I still didn’t like it. It was gross. I yelled at Snakes for making me try it, even though he totally didn’t. I think it’s pretty safe to say that I won’t try it again any time soon.
So to conclude, you how everyone really likes the phrase “I love you like a fat kid loves cake?” Well I’m starting a movement for “I fucking hate you like Steve fucking hates ketchup.” I hope you guys can support me on this one.