No, you’re not taking crazy pills.

But it sure does feel like it, doesn't it?

It was a beautiful, crisp fall day in mid-October and you were strolling through a delightful street festival in a quaint little New England postcard of a town with your best friend like the two of you had done for years.

A cool breeze carried the scents of fallen leaves, apple cider and fried dough in and around the tarp-covered stalls where they were selling local honey, handmade scarves and seed bead earrings, and you simultaneously realized all that shopping for shit you didn’t need had caused a rather acute rumbly in your tumbly.

You knew there were always food trucks just up ahead, and as you meandered through the pumpkin-lined streets and neared their usual location you noticed a massive crowd had gathered. People appeared to be waiting in a very long line, which surprised you, since the lines had never been particularly long in years past.

So, you asked a sweet looking young couple just ahead of you if they were in fact waiting it line, and if so for what.

“For the food truck.” The woman said with an enthusiastic smile as she twirled a few locks of her golden waves in between her fingers.

You and your friend looked at one another somewhat confusedly.

“It must be very good food.” You replied.

“What kind is it? Is it the only food truck?” Your friend inquired.

“It’s hard to explain the food.” She began while looking to her companion for confirmation. “And there is one other food truck up there. But it’s just not the same. It’s boring.”

There didn’t appear to be any line of any kind for the other food truck. The “boring” one as it was called. And you were starving, so you decided to investigate what was going on.

There were indeed two food trucks. From the outside, they looked very similar in some ways, but completely different in others. They did appear to be near matches as far as their age at the very least.

The truck with no line (the boring truck) was adorned with understated fairy lights and decorated with cornstalks, hay bales and not-so-scary scarecrows, creating a cozy and inviting autumnal atmosphere. The menu board was written neatly in an ever-so-charming modern spin on cursive and there was a little seating area just in front of it with plush vintage velvet couches surrounding a rather large stone fire pit. The deep, rich velvet fabric was a luscious shade of emerald green which made them look irresistibly soft to the touch and invitingly smooth. The cooks and cashier all appeared calm, going about their business as if they had a full queue when in truth, there were only a handful of folks contentedly making small talk in between bites of food while stretched out on those beautiful green couches while basking in the golden glow of the fire.

They appeared to be serving a selection of classic American comfort foods. Macaroni and cheese, hamburgers, French fries and apple pie. It all smelled lovely and looked wonderful too. In all honesty, it didn’t look boring to you at all. No, it wasn’t the most exciting food truck you’d ever seen, but clearly all those people choosing the other truck couldn’t be wrong. Right?

“That other food truck must be amazing, because this one looks great, but everyone seems to want the other one.” Your friend noted.

You shrugged and walked together to get a closer look.

The smell hit you first.

The pungent and rancid odor was so thick, so putrid, it basically shoved a little tiny ladder up your nose and assaulted your nostrils with a fire poker from the inside, causing you to recoil in disgust.

The cloying odor was hanging heavy in the air, a noxious blend of rancid grease, spoiled food, and decay, but you had to push forward. You had to know why so many people were waiting in that very long line seemingly despite that very terrible smell.

The Vegas-style neon lights were so blinding there was a moment there where you feared you had woken up on an airport runway just as a 747 was landing directly on top of you.

Once you regained your sight, the scene before you could only be described as hellish. The cooks appeared to be attempting to have sex with some sort of Christmas inflatable and the Oompa Loompa looking cashier was doing lines of some unknown white powder off the counter in between intermittent primal screams of indistinguishable grievance.

The so-called “seating area” was a handful of pesticide barrels turned upside down which appeared to be sinking into a swampy stew of some kind of primordial goo coming from somewhere under the food truck itself.

The chef, a disheveled and unkempt man with a beer belly spilling out the sides of his stained apron, saw you and leaned against the side of the truck, swaying slightly as he took a swig from a bottle of cheap whiskey. His bloodshot eyes darted around wildly, giving him a manic and unsettling appearance. “YOU’RE NOT CUTTERS ARE YOU?” He bristled. “Only ones who cut are the ones I say can cut. We lock up anyone else.”

“Lock up?” You wondered.

Inside the truck, the scene was even worse. Piles of dirty dishes and food scraps littering the cramped, dank kitchen space, attracting flies and other pests. The floor was sticky with spilled sauces, human spit and bacon grease, and a thick layer of grime coated every surface as far as the eye could see.

At first you thought it was all an act. Some type of immersive theatre experience or something. A setup for a prank-style tv show. But no one on line seemed to think so. Couple after couple would march straight up to the truck, stare directly at the hand-written sign which read, “This food may kill you, if it does, too bad cuz THERE ARE NO REFUNDS!”, smile broadly, hand over money and walk away with a styrofoam container full of what could best be described as the color “grey.”

You went in for a closer look as one couple passed you by and you could see instantly that the rancid mush within the container was a dismal sight. It was a congealed mass of unidentifiable substances that seemed to have lost all semblance of their original form. Its surface was lumpy and uneven, with a sickly sheen that hinted at its unappetizing nature.

The heap was a hue devoid of life, a lifeless and desolate shade that seemed to sap every ounce of the vibrancy surrounding it. The texture appeared slimy and gelatinous, and there were randomly sized chunks of unidentifiable matter floating within its murky depths.

And yet person after person handed their money over, smiled and walked away with their own private pile of mush.

You had to know why. You had to ask. It didn’t make any sense. What was wrong with these people?? Why were they choosing this death truck when the other truck looked perfectly fine?

So you found someone and you asked her a very simple question:

“Why are you choosing this nasty, disgusting, dirty, chaotic truck over the other one? This one says right there it can kill you.”

“That other truck uses Himalayan salt, and I like, can’t do that to the Himalayas.” She said. “I can’t bring myself to eat at that truck. I so wanted to like it. It’s just let me down, ya know.”

You asked a young man the same question.

“They say their food can kill you, but they say a lot of things. I don’t believe it for a second. And I can’t give that other guy my money. This chef says that chef is a kid toucher.”

You found a couple seated on some pesticide barrels, and asked them.

“Look lady, both these trucks are like essentially the same.” The man began. “They’re both older. They both have windows and tires. They’re basically the same thing, and this one is just kinda, I dunno… more fun. I wish there was like, a third truck, you know, one that only had stuff I like, but there isn’t, so whatever. This is cool. What’s the worst that can happen? People need to chill.”

That’s when a news crew stormed past you and the reporter began broadcasting in between both trucks — explaining to the viewers at home the “context” of the poison food being served by the malodorous, drugie truck while highlighting that for a lot of folks at that festival, Himalayan salt was just a bright red line they simply could not cross.

You and your friend looked at each other in complete and utter disbelief, certain that you had both lost your damn minds at the same time. Had you? Did all of those people know something you didn’t? The choice between the two trucks couldn’t have been any clearer. Why the hell couldn’t they see it?!? Why were they so happily consuming all that noxious goo?

And that ladies and gentlemen, is essentially where we are right now in this moment in time.