The Tongue of the Undead

I'm in Arizona visiting the best boyfriend in the world. One of the reason's he's the best:

There's this mom and pop shop ice cream place here, and they serve Black Licorice ice cream. The first time I saw the tub of it in their display case, I thought I'd puke. It is the blackest black you have ever seen. It looks like someone poured napalm on the Creature from the Black Lagoon and reduced him to a boneless sandwich spread, then mixed in about 3 gallons of tar. It looked putrid. But the crazy rebel yell in my head demanded a taste. The girl behind the counter winced and oh-so-gingerly poked a miniature pink spoon into the demonic mess. She held it out to me like it was the dirty sock of a leper. I took it. I tasted.

DAMN, that shit was good! I mean it was bitch-get-outta-my-way good.

Long story short: every time I come here, the fantastic boyfriend takes me to get the nasty frozen blackness 2 or 3 times. Which may not sound like much of a sacrifice. Unless you know that the Black Licorice ice cream turns my tongue immediately, horrendously black. The black, black tongue is nicely accessorized by dark purple lips and gray teeth. My very laid back, not-easily-ruffled boyfriend is absolutely repulsed by this blackness of the tongue and discoloration of the surrounding areas. I begin wolfing down the ice cream even while he has yet to receive his change from the drive-thru girl, and in ten seconds, I've got the slithery netherworld tongue thing going. While he's just trying to mind his own business and drive us home, I stick out my tongue and he screams like I've shot him in the neck with a handful of tasers. I then go into my childish ritual of pretending to be sorry, then sticking the evil tongue out again and making him look at me, endangering both our lives.

One night I ate the bowl of tar, brushed my teeth, even brushed the hell out of my tongue, but it was still as black as a Halloween cat and he had a tough time kissing me goodnight. He said "It's not like I can associate that black tongue with someone living."

I get it. I get the undead. They're not sexy. They're not hot. They would not be seen canoodling at a corner table at Spago's with Clive Owen. More like scrubbing down an aluminum trash barrel behind In & Out Burger with Kato Kaelin.

But I must have my dip of the tres noir. I must blacken my tastebuds temporarily and hear my significant other say "I hate when the Plague comes to town."