It’s a little scary what can happen when a journalistic killer instinct is directed at something seemingly innocuous.
Like, meatballs. And the battle to be voted top meatball chef in a six-way competition.
There is the non-stop smack talk. There is the repeated invocation of maternal units. There is, even, the reflexive forming of menacing kung-fu gestures anytime the word “meatball” is mentioned.
And we haven’t even gotten to things that my fellow competitors did.