Hyperbole, thy name is soup

Where do bad folks go when they die?

None of us really know, except apparently the guys from Nirvana, who wrote an awesome song based on that ancient human concern.

But I know where bad writers go, at least before they die.

Camden, New Jersey, USA.

There they write soup labels, through the mist of their tear-glazed eyes.

According to the label on XYZ brand of soup which I imbibed for lunch today, the stuff was delightful, traditional, memorable, generous, chock full, oven-roasted, whimsical, rich, aromatic and savory. None of those labels apply to anything or anyplace I ever saw in New Jersey, except perhaps aromatic, leading me to wonder from whence the writer drew his stock.

It was, the label continued, sure not only to "delight my tastebuds" but to "soothe my soul."

I wonder if the savory herbs included cannabis sativa. Or if the writer himself/herself indulged in a little extract of ergot before gushing out the preceeding thesaurus-worth of adjectives.

My belly is slightly fuller but my soul is hardly soothed. Perhaps I need to assume a yoga position, shed my capitalist inhibitions, man, and commune more sincerely with the all-white chicken pieces.