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. <
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
posted by Bloomin' Onionhead @ 5:47 PM
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