My mind was working overtime as Andy drove us to our destination, a funeral visitation for the son of a dear friend of the family. I tried to use my phone to access the internet, but I had no signal. When we arrived at the Rockhouse Pentacostal Church, I made a small, selfish wish that the church would have wireless internet access. Of course it didn't. Why would it? The last thing a minister would want would be a congregation full of texting, facebooking, and tweeting parishioners. I decided to put the Coca-Cola scandal out of my mind until I could back home and get some facts via the worldwide web.
I further expanded my fears of knowing the truth about other secret formulas. I decided that I have no desire at all to know the eleven herbs and spices that make up the Kentucky Fried Chicken legacy, the ingredients of McDonalds special sauce, or Heinz Ketchup's secrets. I am happy in my ignorance of these secret formulas, and prefer them just to be already made and served to me when I want or need it. I would, however, be amiable to knowing the ingredients of the stuff that was inside the Stretch Armstrong dolls that were popular when I was a little boy, but I suppose that is a story for another time.
This epiphany, and all that was written above, came flooding to me in the car on the way home from the Rockhouse Pentacostal Church. As I rambled it all out to Andy, who had no idea that I had seen the news clip before I left the house (I forgot to tell him that part), he just nodded and agreed and kept his eyes focused on the road. It was long past 6:30, and his last nerve was stretched thin.
I can happily report that after immediately scanning the internet upon my arrival home, I found that the Coca-Cola formula was not revealed. It is still safe and sound in some underground bunker in Atlanta, Georgia. I was so relieved, not only for me, but also for poor Sandra Lee. I am fine with the knowledge that in some instances, I simply cannot handle the truth.
|You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!|