This, Yours Truly is pleased to pronounce, is one well-researched blogpost: as in field work, a lifelong string of taste tests, and a half-assed Google search.
Wow, and what a Googling that was. And no Wikipedia ref . . . yet.
This holiday season (trust me, You must, this will be all handily tied together but you must slog through, like a well-hung Dickens paragraph) I would like to propse in lieu of guilt-addled resolutions (and I've blogged many a year about this practice of resolving) that each and every one of You instead embrace a guilty pleasure. And embrace this guilty pleasure, whatever it might be, at least once a month for in embracing such we embrace who we ARE, not what we think we might like to be. And by guilty I think of things that are silly, out of our alleged element(s), kitschy, crapful, puerile, adult.
A few days ago, while merrily lunching on a gas station tuna sandwich I came up with all of the above, now blogged to inspire You.
I have horrified some by my love of tuna (even eliciting tales of poisoned horror, warnings from strangers - the old retired engineer in midtown East, for one) to begin with and even more by my adoration of the gas station tuna sandwich. I am a food snob yet love them. It's like that Middling City sushi chef who dug hotdogs. I speak of him in past tense as he split the MC.
Perfect gas station tuna sandwiches have a strange sweetness (NOT like the egg salad sandwich I ate in the Shiney Apple this summer whose underbelly was covered with a black mold that tasted oddly sweet-n-sour... until I wretched it into a garbage can), are wrapped lovingly, have little chunks of color. Cost about $2.
Yours Truly plans on eating at least 1/mo. in '06.
Thanks for your tuna attention in this matter.
You can share your guilty, sanguine, secret pleasures with me any time before 12/31.

Guilty, delicious Love.