Not normal onions.. those long green ones. I sometimes put them in the salad to give it a little zest. However
last night I kept hopping up from the television whenever ‘Kingdom Hospital’ played a commercial to cut up more greens for the salad. I eventually ended up putting too many of those green onions in it. It made the salad bad
and all night long I was burping up onion. This morning at work I swear I can still taste it. I like onions
however too much onion is... well
too much. I can’t think of a good parable for too many onions. On top of it the bean sprouts I had put in were kind of slimy. Even after I washed them off. All in all it’s a bad salad. I am going to have to toss it out. Few people really enjoy a Tossed Salad.
I have been incredibly lax with my laundry as of late. The past few loads I did
instead of hanging them up I simply tossed them on the bed. Just a case of the laziness. When I went to bed last night I simply shinnied under my covers with a load of clean laundry on top of me. Not very civilized
but the laundry was all clean and smelled good and I felt cozy. Much like a rat living in his rag-bed. Of course
today my cloths are all wrinkled and thus I look like a bum or a World of Warcraft game player.
No
I do not iron. Irons are alien foreign objects to me. Good grief
I can hardly even hang my cloths up
how would you expect me to iron anything? That’s what butlers are for.
There was a shooting yesterday at a grungy gas station I pass every day on the way to work. It’s pretty nasty. I have popped in there once or twice for a pack of cigarettes
but I generally avoid it. Inside
next to the candy aisle
is an entire aisle made up of weave hair. Just hanging on pegs. I once had to send a photo to my friend in Canada because he simply did not believe me when I told him you can buy hair weaves in gas stations in my part of Florida.
The pavement outside this gas station is often littered with cast-off strands of hair weave. They sit in puddles and oil slicks like shaggy corpses. You have to be careful when you walk
because if you step into one of those old weave piles it can get stuck to your foot
and you end up dragging along a two foot strand of hair wherever you walk. It’s rather disgusting.
So
it came at no surprise to me that someone got shot there. Apparently it was over ‘an argument’ and
of course
no one saw anything. Particularly the guy running the place. The owners the place really should not be surprised. They sell crack pipes in there; both the obvious kinds and the little ‘rose in a tube’ crack pipes. When you cater to that time of clientele
that’s what happens in your parking lot.
Easter is this weekend. That means food and easter baskets. I will also have to get myself a Cadbury crème egg. Those things are good
I crack open the top and stick my tongue in the hole and get almost sexual with it. Just for jollies
here’s a dude that tried to bake a cake using Cadbury crème eggs instead of normal eggs.
Dialing back to April 2006, where the salad is a crime scene and the gas station sells hair.
Ah, 2006. A magical time when you measured your sins in green onion burps and bought cigarettes from a gas station that also supplied crack pipes and hair weaves—all under one fluorescent roof. Now we have delivery apps for everything, but I doubt any of them would bring you a slimy-bean-sprout salad at three in the morning with a side of existential dread. We watched television with commercials then, hopping up mid-show like a broken marionette; now we stream everything and blame the algorithm instead of our own onion enthusiasm. Wrinkled clothes from sleeping under clean laundry? That used to be a Tuesday. Now we have wrinkle-release sprays and steaming hangers, and still we look like crumpled excuses for human beings. And that World of Warcraft insult—2026 has expanded the taxonomy of slovenly gamers considerably, but at least back then you could blame your look on one specific raid. The gas station strand of weave stuck to your shoe was the original rogue smartphone: once attached, it followed you everywhere, corrupting your walk. Nobody has invented an app to fix that.
“2006 Ed, did you honestly eat that entire apology of a salad after all those onion burps, or did the slimy bean sprouts finally win the battle for your mouth before you tossed it into the trash of culinary regret?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2006 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, I’m gonna be honest with you: I ate more of that sorry salad than I should have. There’s a certain stubborn pride in finishing a thing you made even when it’s clearly a mistake, like a man eating a gas station burrito just because he paid for it. I kept telling myself the next bite would taste better. It didn’t. Those slimy bean sprouts were the real traitors—they fooled me into thinking rinsing would save them, and then they just sat there, all slick and apologetic, making everything worse. By the time I gave up, I was burping onion so powerful I could season a soup with my breath alone. Yes, the salad finally went into the trash, and honestly, the trash was the winner. It took the loss for the team. But I did not feel good about it. That salad ranks right up there with other great disappointments of 2006, which is saying something, because this year has had plenty.
