The Power Lunch

I've always considered Subway an aphrodisiac of sorts because it always brings out the dick in me. It is the most interactive food exchange medium I can think of really. A power-shift paradigm where I, the consumer and digester, regain artistic control of my lunch from a reluctant Food Preparation Technician (FPT). And I say reluctant because I know it must be hard for the "sandwich artist" to concede this power to me, and how can you blame them. They probably moved their families halfway across the country upon the promise that they would enjoy absolute creative freedom. But that's not my problem. I have an Abe Lincoln AND a George Washington in my pocket that say if you're going to put your plastic glove-wrapped hands on my 12-inch then call me Pocahontas because I'm the one who will be guiding you to the promised land.

To understand this concept of sandwich artistry you must first breakdown what art really is. In its purest form art is not endless reproductions of a slightly varied set of generic models that hold as much originality as a bag or marshmallows (unless of course you are Thomas Kincaid). This being said our FPT's are not really "artists" more than knobs on an Etch-A-Sketch. You can move them one way, back up and move another way, or lead them in circles, death spirals, or curly-Q's. Wherever your muse leads you is fine, as the FPT is a tool of manipulation, and not a manipulating tool like yourself. If in the end, what is left before you resembles a doodlebug or a coughed-up hairball, at least it's original, and if it's not to the liking of your critical eye you can just shake it up and start from scratch. You got the power. Snap!

It is important that you establish early who wears the polyester pants in this relationship. They do. But you wear the pants that are important, the ones with money in them. I like to make immediate eye contact with my designated FPT. By eye contact I don't mean that casual look that says "Hello friend, I see your about to make my sandwich, I trust your vision, and respect your ageless wisdom, Godspeed". No, No, No. This is a power relationship and as such it is important to keep those reigns tight from the onset. I prefer the two-finger method myself. I take two fingers and point them at my eyes, then point those same two fingers at their eyes, repeat, repeat, repeat, while simultaneously I’m chanting "I'm on ya, I'm on ya, I'm on ya". When they look at me like I’m wearing my penis as a party hat that's when I know I have their attention.

“Welcome to Subway, would you like to try the Welcome Back Jared special?” the FPT says motioning toward a standing cardboard cutout of the recently hired back ex-fat guy/sandwich pitchman/media phenom. I don’t really care for Skinny Jared. I mean what has he really accomplished? His claim is that he lost 1.5 metric tons eating nothing but plankton and Subway sandwiches for two months. If this is true, and I have my doubts, shouldn’t he have saggy jowls or a crooked spine or some kind of visible reminder of the days he roamed the barren, desolate earth in search of a dimly lit buffet? I’m waiting for the Oliver Stone movie where we see Skinny Jared, a fresh-out-of-college advertising exec, in the boardroom at Subway standing in front of a power-point presentation with photo-shopped pictures of his newest creation and cash cow, Fat Jared. Pulling the wool over the eyes of the gullible American public - sinister, yet brilliant. The board likey, they likey a lot, and their only request is that Skinny Jared make Fat Jared even fatter, which with a few clicks of the mouse is no problem at all. Even if you do believe that Skinny Jared really was once Fat Jared, you have to know that he didn’t just go in and order foot-long meatball subs six times a day. No, Fat Jared’s Subway diet consisted of either a 6-inch turkey sub, no cheese or mayo, dry with mustard, or a 6-inch Veggie Delight. A dry turkey sub is OK I guess but I think I would get bored with it after a few days since it’s about as exciting as professional bowling. Nonetheless no diet is effective without there being some small sacrifice. However eating the Veggie Delight is like sacrificing you soul, first born, and last shreds of dignity to the almighty Hotpocketus, god of all processed foods. You see the Veggie Delight is not really vegetables, in fact it’s not really food at all. I guess I don’t know what it is, but I do know what it looks like, and that is congealed vomit, preserved and entombed in a jiggly petroleum jelly mold. Calling it a “delight” is like calling an over-filled litter box a “sight to behold”. How anyone without seven stomachs can keep this stuff down is beyond me. Just looking at it jiggling on a bun without being touched makes me want to dry heave my colon up through my body and onto the checkerboard floor.

“Ummmm…no thanks. You know what I think, I’ll just have the 12-inch roast beef on wheat.”

Now that the awkward greetings are over, and my order is in, it’s time to break the bread, amen. Quite possibly the most over-looked dynamic in the field of sandwich art is the splitting of the loaf. Forgive me for sounding sexist here, but I liken a perfectly cut sub loaf to the body of a perfectly proportioned woman. There are three types.

Type A: The Top Heavy Cut – The top-heavy cut may look rather inviting on initial view. Its hefty heaving top is surely a distraction to what may or may not lie inside. But you don’t care because it’s the first thing you see after you initially unwrap it and it screams out to you “grab me, squeeze me, see how good I feel all squished up in your fingers”. However once you are engaged, and this may happen very quickly, you will soon realize that without the support on the bottom, what once seemed like a memorable experience may end up a premature mess in your lap.

Type B: The Bottom Heavy Cut– OK, you like big bottoms, and you cannot lie. Quite frankly you can’t deny when you see a bottom-heavy roll you get sprung into action. So when you get home, unwrap it, and shake that hefty bun and wanna yum, double yum yum, you are, let’s just say a little let down, when there is only a wee little bit on top. What are you supposed to grab onto? Sure you can hold it from the bottom the whole time, but when the top is so small it blends in with the middle, you tend to lose your appetite fast.

Type C: The Fiddy-Fiddy Cut – The fiddy-fiddy cut is split right down the middle. With perfect proportions on top and bottom, the fiddy recipient is more than delighted. Once unwrapped the fiddy cut looks finger-lickin good from every angle and every position, from the front to the back, and from the side to that sneak peek when you are driving home and can’t wait. And perhaps more importantly, when things are equally distributed from top to bottom you have no choice but to realize that no matter what’s on top or on bottom, it’s what’s inside that really matters.

With perfectly cut bun in hand my FPT is moving down the line. I try hard not to read the old-timey newspaper clippings on the wall or focus on the large cookies and Big Grabs at the end of the line. Remember, if they walk away, walk away, you too can follow. From my experience it is best to stay on ‘em, for if not you will get the script, and by then it may be too late to flip it. This is where I watch them like a weapons inspector, and when they start fuckin’ up, and they will because it is in their nature, I’m on them like a starving fly at a doo-doo buffet. Now the only thing that stands between me and the aesthetic destiny of my sandwich is the FPT’s best friend, the impenetrable sneeze shield. The poor visibility when looking through the sneeze shield is the result of a natural phenomenon known in the ear, nose, and throat community as Projectile Nasal Splatter (PNS). To rectify this misfortune I try to identify the in-house maintenance engineer. I see a lethargic adolescent with a squirt bottle dangling from his back pocket pushing a mop bucket around like he’s on the Bataan Death March. I wonder if this could be him so I decide to confront him. In case you are wondering if it is OK to confront the maintenance engineer without first lobbying your need of his services to the store manager, my answer would be “fuck yeah it is”. Think about it this way – this guy is not qualified yet to lay meat and lettuce on sandwiches, a skill I perfected when I was six, so either (A) he has the mental capacity of a sea sponge or (B) the store manager doesn’t care for him very much which means he will probably foam at the mouth for the opportunity to go over his head just so he can tell his peeps how he stuck it to the man. Either way it’s a win-win situation.

“Hey buddy ***, c’mere a second” I say to him.

*** For all the readers at home “hey buddy” is the standard greeting when approaching a complete stranger for a favor when you have absolutely nothing to offer them in return. Examples: “hey buddy, do you mind if I cut in line?” or “hey buddy, can you give me a lift?” or “hey buddy, do you mind lancing this infected pus-ridden sore on my sweaty hairy back cause I sure can’t reach it.”

He walks over and looks at me kinda strange. I thought I took that party hat off. “Yeah dude”, he says.

I point over at the sneeze shield. “Dude look”

He looks over then looks at me in absolute bewilderment. “What dude?

Perhaps comparing this guy to a sea sponge may have been giving him too much credit. I point specifically to the desiccated nasal residue that has left splatter stains all over and formed brilliant yet disgusting stalactites and stalagmites along the borders of the sneeze shield. “DUDE!” I whisper with a scream. I could offer to help him out but I don’t want to tire myself out because I need to get back to the office and sit on my ass for four more hours and look like I’m busy.

“Whoa dude!” he exclaims and quickly springs into action and cleans up the problem lickity-split (perhaps lickity is not the best word to use in this situation). Looking though the crystal clear prism of the sneeze shield now I feel like Jimmy Cliff cause I can see clearly now, the snot is gone. And just in the lick of time because my FPT, as expected, is doing things all wrong. I can’t believe he started without me. I have a feeling a heated exchange is imminent.

“Hey, you never told me you were starting.”

“Excuse me sir?”

Can you believe that, “Excuse me sir?”, like I don’t know what that means. Everyone knows “Excuse me sir” is workplace lingo for “What did you say motherfucker?” And that kind of potty talk is unacceptable not to mention a serious violation of the standard FPT/customer engagement protocol.

“What did you fart or something? I said I think you started without me”

“Sir, I can assure you all I have done so far was place the meat and cheese on the bun. The amounts are consistent on every sandwich. It is standard operating procedure for all Subway restaurants.”

“Hey buddy, I’ve been coming into Subways long enough to know protocol. The protocol is we work together, we’re a team, you and I, that’s how are relationship is supposed to work. We stop at each station together, and you ask me what I like, and I share these requested affinities with you while offering invaluable input, little words of encouragement, and positive feedback. So when you start without me I feel a little left out, like your not respecting my opinions and feelings, and it hurts. I feel like this entire relationship could be in jeopardy.”

“I’m sorry to hear that sir. Anyway do the meat and cheese met your approval, can we move along here? There are other customers waiting behind you.”

Can you believe that? He tried to guilt me into believing that I was causing my fellow sub-eaters unnecessary inconvenience and anguish. Had he followed protocol right from the start, none of this would have happened. I looked back in line and they were all standing with their hands on their hips, shaking their heads, and staring at their watches. Clearly these non-verbals are consistent with someone who is dreading going back into work and not a sign of growing impatience with an annoying customer in front of them. Furthermore, we are not just customers at a sub place. We are a close-knit community of sandwich art enthusiasts who congregate every weekday at lunch to share our appreciation of some of the finer aspects of traditional old world sandwich creation such as long bun symmetry, harmonious vegetable adornment, and abstract condiment expression. I could feel the support radiating from their red faces, so I pressed on.

“Actually look at the way the roast beef is just hanging over the sides of the bread. That’s sloppy, shotty workmanship. It looks like a saggy flabby ass hanging out of some daisy dukes. Right now this sandwich looks like a skanky ho.”

Had my FPT been a samurai he would have filleted himself right in front of us all, a butterfly cut down the belly to release his inner pain and other vital organs. His uninspiring efforts had brought great shame upon himself, his fellow artistes, and this respectable house of subs. He could dare look at me and stare into the mirror of disgrace, so he gazed down into a pit of cheese tapping his fingers. I hated to do it to him, really I did. But we all know how communication is key in all relationships, and our relationship was no exception. It would have surfaced somewhere down the line (perhaps near the oil & vinegar) so it was best to break the ice and deal with our problems before they festered into an incurable enigma.

“What…would…you… suggest…sir?” he replied with his hand grasping his knife so hard it was trembling. Poor guy, the indignity he was feeling must have been unbearable.

“Well, personally I would trim up that meat some. Make it a little lighter and fluffier so you can pile it high on that bun and make it look like there is more on there.”

“Sir, if it’s more meat you want I can double it for two dollars”

OK, this guy was obviously becoming delusional with grief. He must know by know that we art enthusiasts are notoriously cheap. Clearly this was not a viable option. I rather resented his irrational proposition, but since I didn’t want to compound his misery, I let it drop. I do have compassion after all.

“Did I say double my meat? What am I speaking Portuguese? Get to steppin’ already, don’t you see this line of customers behind me?”

“Sir would it make you happy if I cut the cheese too?”

“If you feel that’s appropriate, then by all means let it rip.” Boy this guy had some issues. Communication breakdown, it’s always the same. Lucky for me I am a master due to the Interpersonal Communication class I took at La Universidad back in the day. It was a class where we always sat in a circle, and learned to talk to each other by being empathetic toward each other’s feelings and needs. I hear they are giving the same class to the chimps at the National Zoo, and now they ask each other how their day’s been in chimp-speak before they fling their poop at each other. Yeah they really are a lot like us.

After 15 minutes of invaluable input such as “whoa-whoa-whoa”, “hey-hey-hey”, “no-no-no”, little words of encouragement such as “You call yourself an artist?”, “Does your manager know how bad you suck?” , and “You don’t deserve the honor of wearing that visor”, and positive feedback like “When’s the last time you trimmed those nails”, “Hey Sir Squirts-A-Lot, lay off the mayo already” and “Is that lettuce brown…if I don’t eat fresh today then you’re gonna die by my bloody hand”, we finally made it to the promised land. My FPT hands off my sub to a Cash Control Professional (CCP), and says to me “Have a nice day” and walks back to severely disappoint the next enthusiast in line. Yeah right, “have a nice day,” he says, like I don’t know what that means.

The CCP has never worn a pair of disposable plastic gloves in his life. He is a white-collar worker in a blue-collar job, and likes to keep it that way. The job only consists of a few responsibilities: tendering cash for sandwich art transactions, standing upright and motionless for long stretches, and divvying out Sub Club Stamps, with the latter being the responsibility that is often intentionally overlooked. If you didn’t know there was a Sub Club at Subway that’s OK because they don’t want you to know. The Sub Club is a dark, secret society where members present their Sub Club Cards at the register and in turn receive one Sub Club Stamp for purchasing a 6-inch sub and two Sub Club Stamps for a 12-inch sub, so yes size does matter. When you fill up the card you are rewarded with a free sub of your choice. As Subway is a franchised house of art, it is up to the individual gallery owner how much, or what is usually the case, how little advertising they do to promote the club. Apparently the first rule of Sub Club is don’t tell anybody about Sub Club. The only way I found out about it was over-hearing some comrades at the office whispering about it, and when I threatened to rat out their office supply theft ring, they spilled their guts.

Other than the free sub every once in a blue moon there are really no other official benefits of being a card-carrying member of Sub Club. There are no secret handshakes, or funny hats, or memberships newsletters, or discounts on hotels or air flights. Membership has one privilege, and once you use it up, you have to eat seven more subs at full Club price in order to use it again. However there are unwritten benefits to being a club member. Once you start accruing Sub Club Stamps on your Sub Club Card, as if by magic that once worthless card suddenly becomes a form of exchangeable currency. I checked the World Monetary Chart today and the current value of one Sub Club Card with six Sub Club Stamps affixed is the equivalent of three US dollars, 2.48 Euros, 250,000,000,000 pesos, and 12 Chuck E. Cheese game tokens. With this in mind, it is not uncommon to see Sub Club members exchanging their card with non-Sub Club members for cash, jewelry, electronics, Snoopy Sno-Cone machines, sexual favors, et al. Personally I have stuffed Sub Club Cards in parking meters, Christmas stockings for the little ones, and in the G-string of Boobieliscious, for her big ones. So in summary, it is imperative that you get your Sub Club Stamps from the CCP before leaving the store. That does not mean it’s going to be easy. Getting a Sub Club Stamp out of a CCP is like squeezing acting talent out of Keanu Reeves. I pay the CCP for my meal and then lay my Sub Club Card out on the counter right in front of him.

“Have a nice day,” he says, pretending not to see my card.

“Hey buddy. I have 12 inches here that says you have something I want”

He looks at me with a mortified look on his face. Obviously he was hiding something.

“The stamps man. I believe I am entitled to two Sub Club Stamps.”

“Oh the stamps! I think we are all out. Here, let me look for them again.” He stands there motionless, doing absolutely nothing like only a CCP knows how to do, then staring right at me smiles and says “Nope, sorry, all out.”

I can’t say I was all that shocked by his unwillingness to hand over what was rightfully mine. Sub Club Stamps are like gold bars to the CCP, and evidently he was hoarding them for himself. The street value of a roll of Sub Club Stamps is enough to lure anyone into a life of wickedness and debauchery, and it didn’t take McGruff the Crime Dog to sniff out this racketeering operation. Lucky for me I have experience in such felonious matters, and I knew just how to deal with this contemptuous scalawag. I took two coins out of the Give-A-Penny/Take-A-Penny bin near the register and slid the shiny copper booty in front of him.

“Perhaps now I’m speaking your language,” I said with a sinister lisp.

“I don’t think so,” he said, but I could tell by the two Lincolns reflecting in his dark glassy pupils that he was impressed with the treasure that lay before him, so I continued.

“Maybe this will change your mind,” I whispered emphatically as I took two more coins from the bin and slid them slowly within reach of his trembling greedy hands.

“Nice try…I can’t be bought” he said, but with such a shaky voice I could tell he was breaking down so I decided to persevere and push him over the edge.

“Wouldn’t mama look nice in a new pair of shoes?” I asked as I took the last three coins out of the bin and rolled them one by one into the mountain of damning temptation that was two Sub Club Stamps away from becoming his own.

“Dear lawd, please forgive me!” he cried as he reached below the counter and tore off and handed me my stamps, and then madly proceeded to scoop his newfound wealth into his sin-lined pockets. I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about raiding the Give-A-Penny/Take-A-Penny bin. Those pennies belonged to the universe and and I used them in the name of all that was good and righteous. The CCP however probably just guaranteed his soul would burn in the fiery pits of hell for all eternity, which I suppose is more exciting than running the register at Subway.

When I got back to the office, I whipped it out, and slapped it on my desk with such a monstrous thud my cube mates came running over to admire its magnificence. I had quite a crowd around me as I absorbed the compliments from my flabbergasted colleagues such as “I’ve never seen one that big” and “How can you possibly hold it?” and “I’m going to be dreaming about that for the rest of my shift”. Just then my manager tapped me on the back of my shoulder.

“Hey buddy, I need to see you in my office to talk about your productivity for the month.” Damn he couldn’t have waited until my lunch was over to break that to me. Sometimes I feel like life’s a pimp and I’m its bitch. Here in the office I am just another low man on the totem pole, another number on corporate payroll, another voiceless and powerless pawn on an uneven playing board. Oh well, what can you do, right? Beside in 23 more hours it would be time for another power lunch, and for sixty wonderful minutes I would be the man once again.

SHAVE THEIR KNEES, AND THEY WILL COME

Being the world’s premier self-help guru can be exhausting. Don’t get me wrong, I am certainly not complaining. But it’s tough not being able to walk down the street and buy a tasty knish from a street vendor or sell hot electronics out of the back of a truck, or make subtle yet hilarious farting noises in the long line at the bank like a regular Joe anymore. My appearance on the Oprah show, for better or for worse, has plastered my onionhead all over every magazine cover in the free world and every air-dropped bag of over-priced subsidized contaminated corn meal in the unfree world. I can hardly leave the gates of my humble Beverly Hills mansion without some pitiful troubled soul approaching me with some life shattering dilemma such as “when my man pees all over the toilet seat, is he like, ummm trying to tell me something”, or “when we were talking about sex at dinner with another couple the other night my wife referred to me as Quick Draw McGraw…what’s that all about?” or “ If I eat the free samples from those old ladies at the grocery store, can I just move on or am I obligated to talk to them? I mean they’re really old”. Nonetheless I answer all of their questions, after all, helping people who are too stupid to help themselves is my life’s work, my passion, and my gift of thanks to thou who was sent down from heaven to save mankind, and without whose infinite love, eternal wisdom, and generous hand, my salvation would be unattainable. So hey, thanks Oprah!

When I’m not busy orally satisfying the random riff raff on the streets, I am usually responding to the plethora, yes I said a plethora, of letters I get asking for my judicious penetration into the daily affairs of the innately clueless. Even now, as I am riding in my private jet high above the clouds on my way to Camp Jiggles Nudie Camp in the beautiful isolated paradise of sunny Culebra for a little vacati…errrr, I mean for a humanitarian mission to bring solace and understanding to the empty lives of a misunderstood minority cursed with shameful sexual addiction and an obsessive compulsion for a ritual known as the Hokey-Pokey-Pokey-Pokey***, yes even now I am reading though their confessions, finding ways to free their tortured souls, sorta like kindly Father Murphy O’Murphy at Our Lady Of Perpetual Constipation saves souls of his sinful flock with his bottomless “God is always watching” contribution basket, but without such divine providence, and with a higher “Santa knows when you’ve been bad or good” success ratio of course.

*** for only pennies a day, you can help these poor morally malnourished adult singles lead a fulfilling and rewarding life in their chosen sexually deviant lifestyle. Each month with your contribution you will receive pictures of your sponsored naked man or woman showing you EXACTLY how your generosity helps them participate in such everyday hands-on activities such as “Musical Asses”, “Let’s Make a Nudie Sandwich” and “Breast, Thigh, or Leg?” (your receipt of your sponsors pictures are contingent upon your acceptance of an age verification application)

But back to the mailbag. I have in my hand a letter from a disturbed despondent woman from Seneca, Washington. Her psychosis is an odd one, and rather challenging at that, but nothing I don’t feel my copyrighted 3-step program can’t handle. I am including her actual letter here as well as my insightful response, so you the reader may be able to see the play by play of how the master Onionhead mind works to bring normality to the insane world of an everyday miscreant.

Dearest Onionhead,

My name is Velouria and I love camels. OK, I don’t just love them, I am obsessed with them. In particular, the Mongolian “hairy-kneed” Bactrian camel. If there is a sadder beast walking the earth, I do not wish to know for I weep night and day for the poor misunderstood animal. I love its yellow teeth, and its stank ass breath, its long tufty eyelashes, and those beautiful humps, O how I love the humps. Did you know the first animal the baby Jesus first had contact with was a “hairy-kneed” Bactrian camel? Tis true, for I saw it on the Holy Ancient Desert Animals History Channel, which is channel 316 of my expanded “Xtras for Losers” digital cable package. According to the good book of Bob, chapter 3, verse 16, the wise men were so tickled with the future king they placed him on their camel they had just ridden in on, with the good faith of giving him a ride with their jolly fat friend Santa around the manger. But the poor camel could not move as his knees were shaking terribly so. The three wise men, who felt all the more wiser since they had just recently received their diplomas in the mail in just 12 short weeks, deduced the camel was cold, and appealed to God to intervene.

“Warm it up, God” they said.

“I’m about to” God responded.

“Warm it up, God” they said again.

“That’s what I was born to do” God replied, and with a sly smirk and wiggle of his nose he added mounds of coarse hair to the camel’s shaky knees.

“God is great!” everyone cheered in unison, in fact they were so thrilled that each wise man, one at a time, would drop down to his knees then shoot up arms extended to the heavens, and thus became the inception of “the wave”. Surely that camel would prance around now that his cold knees were warm, they thought. They put the son of God back up on the camel with Santa, but the camel would not budge. The poor camel knees were still shaking like Ron Jeremy’s man-tits in a 70’s porn flick. God, being the all-knowing eavesdropper that he is, became angry with the camel, and launched into a divine tantrum of thunder, lightning and gusty wind.

“Here I am” God said, “Rock you like a hurricane”, and thus bad heavy metal was born to punish mankind’s ears until the end of time, along with a long string of bad luck for the state of Florida and the country of Bangladesh. God was also angry at Santa, and for his penance Santa would have to dress up in a dorky Eskimo outfit and stuff his fat ass down millions of dirty soot filled chimneys on that day forever and ever as a reminder as his role in the embarrassing stunt. But God was not done as he was so angered by the wise men’s lack of knowledge, he made Sally Struthers the spokesperson for mail-order diplomas for all eternity, thereby lowering their intrinsic value to that of a “I pooped in the potty” certificate from Babies R’ Us. Finally he looked for the camel, who had retreated to the corner of the manger and was whimpering softly, knees still shaking. But being a forgiving god, God spared his life, however he left the ghastly hair on it’s knees and banished the camel out of the garden of olives and into the lonely, desolate desert where his descendents would walk alone as outcasts, and would never know the joy of throwing it’s own poop like god’s favorite animal, the mite-munching monkey.

What no one realized that day, even God, was that this was the first public display of “performance anxiety”, and after thousand of years we only now realize this cannot be corrected thru warmth, punishment, hellfire, fury, or penis pumps but only thru tiny little highly priced pills that one can buy discreetly over the internet. So this poor camel is not the scourge of the animal kingdom as we have been programmed to believe from god-fearing brethren, but is merely a victim of circumstance, a circumstance that even my own husband is quick to blame on drunkenness or a long day at work. I decided that I must do all I can to reverse this horrible injustice. But what can one person do? I decided I could best show my empathy with this camel by trying to become more like a camel. I have been hunching over my keyboard at work in hopes one day that I too may develop an unsightly hump on my back. I started smoking just to collect Camel Cash, of which I now have an entire closet full of, and plan on getting the black leather Joe Camel bomber’s jacket that no one but carnival workers would dare wear. I stopped shaving my knees in the shower, although I have to admit I still do occasionally smoke, pee and brush my teeth in there (I am human after all). I started serving the family cud for dinner and I am now spitting daily at the mailman, and my hubby says if I don’t stop my freaky bullshit soon he’s going to run off with the next Tupperware Lady that knocks on the door.

Mr. Onionhead you’re the only one who can help me. Your appearance on the Oprah show changed my life. You may have seen me in the studio audience that day. I was the one with the small hump in my back wearing the capri pants. After the show you drew a smiley face on my nipple J and wrote, “DON’T WORRY, BE PSYCHO” around it. Well, I went home and ordered your self-help tapes, and I am proud to say I just made my second of six easy installments of $29.95 just yesterday. Next to my amazing Bedazzler from Ronco, it’s the best money I ever spent, and a small price to pay to be able to think for myself one day. But I’m in need of a quickie right now and I think you are the man for the job. If you could come up with an action plan for me that would help me live a halfway normal life while I try to deal with this camel thing, I would be eternally grateful.

Hope to hear from you soon. I’ll start holding my breath…right…now.

Therapeutically Yours,

Velouria

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My Velouria,

I think my patented 3-step program is a perfect fit for your problem. The great thing about my program is that a delusional psychopath like yourself can comfortably fit their recovery program into their daily routine without missing a beat. To your credit you have made the first step in diagnosing your problem – a troubling fascination with camels. Now, from my recent reading of the wonderfully written “The Camel Species, Human Obsession, and the Meaning of Life” I can say, with authority, that indeed you are a borderline wack job, but postpone that fitting for your straitjacket for a while because I do believe I can help. Now by identifying you have a problem, and you have proven this by you own admission “My name is Velouria, and I love camels”, you have already completed the first step, and may I say you sound like a real pro (have you done this before?). So pat yourself on the back, there are only two steps left!

This leads you to step two – denial. Not denial as in “I deny I have a problem”, because as we both know from step one, you have already admitted that you do, and not only would that totally cheapen your accomplishments, but we in your recovery group would be forced to throw uncooked egg noodles at you while speaking in tongues. The denial I refer to is the denial of the outside world. This is the stage where in a desperate attempt to hide your dark little secret you completely isolate yourself from friends, family, co-workers, rodeo clowns, cosmonauts, David Hasslehoff, infomercial audience members, birds of prey, boy bands, yaks, US Attorney General John Ashcroft, the bigfoot monster, and anyone else you may hold dear in your heart. Velouria, this is where you really need to be strong because this unbearable torture can last three, maybe four hours. In order to endure the physical withdrawals from this horrid self-deprivation I suggest you isolate yourself in your living room cozied up with a warm blankie, a couple of good DVD’s, and a bottomless bowl of microwave-popcorn. When you emerge from this unthinkable agony you will feel a cleansed and renewed spirit, for it’s only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything. And so you will now be ready for the third and final step – redemption.

People often confuse redemption with revenge, which is understandable since they both start with “re”, and they are both “re” actions to an unwanted or unprovoked aggressive action. But the difference between the two is really quite startling, with redemption being an internal release and revenge being an external release. To break it down in culinary terms, revenge is like eating a Krispy Kreme since you know it is not good for you but you may scarf down a half dozen anyway for that immediate primal satisfaction. Redemption is like eating a fruit salad or a veggie plate as even though you may not get that initial rush of pleasure, in the long run you are feeling better, and as a result, are a much healthier person for it. With this said I urge you to dispel any ideas of enacting vigilante justice upon those who wish to persecute you for your belief in human-camel camaraderie. Rolling around town acting like Charlie Bronson is not healthy no matter how glorifying it may seem. When you have these thoughts I advise you to reaffirm your position internally by repeating to yourself “drop the donut, no one gets hurt…drop the donut, no one gets hurt”. Click your heels three times if you feel like this helps. Now that your confused mind is no longer hijacked by negative thought, you will be ready to proceed.

Head to your neighborhood drugstore and grab a shopping cart (if you ever wondered when people use shopping carts in drugstores this is one of those times). Next, you fill that cart up with every Lady Remington and every bottle of Nair on the shelf. Proceed to checkout. Avoid the awkward stares of your fellow shoppers and the checkout clerk who may be wondering what kind of a hygiene issue you may have that would compel you to stockpile female body hair removal products. Focus on the cheap radios behind the counter that no one ever buys, whisper to yourself “drop the donut, and no one gets hurt”, click your heels together three times if needed. When you pay for your items make sure to get a receipt for tax purposes and get out of there fast. Book the next flight to Mongolia, pack your bags, and head to the airport. MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! There is no time, even for cake. On your transcontinental flight, while you are enjoying your complimentary bag of official airline unsalted peanuts and a half a can of Fresca over ice, do not explain yourself to the twelve drunk college students who are on their way to sunny Mongolia for spring break, they will not understand, no one will understand, until you are ready for them to understand, do you understand?

Finally you will reach the promised land and your supportive co-dependent friends will be there to help you maneuver your way through the Gobi. You will spot a camel in the distance with his head in the sand. You know this is your camel by the unsightly mounds of coarse hair covering his knees. Dun, dun, dun it’s action time! As you sneak up on him in stealth mode you can hear him whimpering, as only Bactrian hairy-kneed camels do. He is crying for help. When he is close enough, your supportive co-dependent friends will all gang tackle him, and our hero, you, will make your move. In a moment of shock and awe you whip out your weapon of choice, a deluxe model Lady Remington complete with dual action blades and a feminine yet sporty flexi-grip. You then proceed to shave his knees with long, authoritative strokes, careful not to leave any unsightful nicks or scars, and then finish those hideous flailing knees off for good by dousing them with Nair, specially formulated with aloe, vitamin E, and tea tree oil for extra softness. Before he can work up enough phlegm in his throat to launch a loogey at his attackers, your mission will be accomplished. He will stand up, a little unbalanced and will feel a peculiar draft just below his four thighs. Perplexed, he will gaze down at this strange newness he feels in his posterior. He will see the results of your precision grooming. <> Suddenly he is grinning ear to ear, flashing those pearly off-whites for the world to see. Yes, he is feeling pretty dapper with his new slick, shiny, baby-soft knees. In fact, he thinks he is the cat’s meow. He will look at you, and you will look at him, and at this moment you will both understand, redemption has come. As you are holding back tears, he will prance off into the sunset, high stepping with his head held high, enjoying every second of his newfound confidence.

You drop to your knees, arms outstretched to the heavens and look to the clouds only to hear a voice “Shave their knees, and they will come”. ”Uh-oh” you think. Before you know it you and your supportive co-dependent friends see thousands of Bactrian hairy-kneed camels charging your way, all wanting their knees shaved, all wanting freedom. At first you are overwhelmed. You think to yourself “self, what have I gotten my self into?” A mirage then appears in the distance. Wait, it’s not a mirage, it’s the twelve college students from the plane who came to sunny Mongolia for spring break hijinks. They have heard about your admirable cause, and since the Mongolian party scene was lame they decided to use this off time to beef up their future resumes with a little volunteer work. You enlist every one of them, promising them each glowing letters of recommendation. There is only one problem – you have only brought a shopping cart of shaving supplies and you have thousands of kneedy camels. Lucky for you though one of your supportive co-dependent friends could not bear to be without technology for a few days and secretly brought their laptop with them to check the latest entertainment gossip. You scold him for his lack of willpower and yank the device out of his hand. You then log on to an online drugstore and start placing orders. Within hours, crates of Nair and Lady Remingtons are being airdropped from American military cargo planes who believe they are funding an anti-communist Mongolian women militia...sneaky you!!!! When the last camel’s knees is shaved you head home, satisfied and content, knowing that you turned what was once deemed a peculiar obsession into a successful movement to improve the self-esteem of an entire species.

The current administration learns of Operation Happy Camel from intelligence on the ground in Mongolia, and although they feel duped for inadvertently funding your mission, they decide to use your story to distract the American public from the plummeting economy and the increasingly unfavorable war in Iraq. When you walk off the plane you are greeted by hundreds of flag-waving Americans and hoards of camera crews and reporters anxious to give you your fifteen minutes of fame. In one last selfless act you call for an emergency meeting of the world’s foremost experts on the camel species to rename this once unknown and misunderstood animal. Many, many years later, you are reading the best-selling children’s book “Camel Kookachoo, An Illustrated Beginner’s Guide of the Lovable Camel Species” to your granddaughter, who is sitting on your knee, concentrating on your every word. As you attempt to turn to page 4 she interrupts you and points down to the picture, ”that’s one happy camel, grandma,” she says. On that page is a magnificent photo of the one of the world’s most loved animals, and underneath it is the caption: The “Cheesy-Grinned” Bactrian Camel: the social butterfly of the desert.

So my Velouria, I have laid out these three simple steps that will certainly have you back on the path to normalcy in no time at all. I wish you and your nipple a long psychosis-free life!

Whips and Kisses,

Bloomin’ Onionhead