Dear Evil Discussor... How's lunch?

Horrible, thanks. Just got back from picking up a chopped salad. Which is enough of a strain on the emotions and psyche as it is. The lineup is always tremendous, and not only that, but there's the fact that I'm lining up for a chopped salad. Which, even at my age, is something I haven't completely come to grips with. Call it an identity issue or a case of mild to awful insecurity, but when I hear myself ordering a chopped salad, I even want to make fun of myself. It's just something I haven't gotten over. Salad is something you DON'T want to eat. Not something you, in any way, desire to eat of. Because it's something that generally TASTES HORRIBLE. And besides, it's FOR THE LADIES. Any dude would rather be sinking his teeth into a greasy bacon cheeseburg without a fucking doubt, and really, when ordering a salad, is just succumbing to societal pressures to turn himself into a lady boy of some kind. But anyways, once in a while, I succumb. Mostly for the sake of anyone who ever has to have any encounter with my belly, be it topless or shirted, whether on the beach, on the street, in the office, on my desk, wherever, anywhere, everywhere. It's a little baby belly, but a belly no less. So anyways, when I do succumb, when I decide to go for it, to take that high diving leap into a crispity bed of half romaine half iceberg, I need said salad to be tasty. No, delicious. No, perfect and perfectly deliciously delectably delightful! It has to taste at least a quarter as good as a greezy slice of meatball pizza might, albeit a greezy slice of meatball pizza that instead of meatballs and pizza, is made up of some sort of earthy-tasting leaf and the most flavorless and innocuous as possible vegetables, such as cucumbers, green peppers, and more cucumbers. If it doesn't taste at least an eighth as good as something good tasting tastes, I might freak out. I might impale myself on my fork and throw my salad at you and get the fuck out of saladtown forever.


Upsettingly, there was a new salad lady behind the salad counter today. And I could see it in her eyes she was in way over her head. She was frightened. And so was I. And the whole time in line I was thinking "pleeeeaase don't stick me with her, please deliver me to one of the old pros who knows just the right amount of dressing and how to chop it just right." She was only one of the eight salady salad makers, so my chances were good, right? Wrong, bitchpants. Of course, it's only right that I should end up in the newbie's clumsy salad hands. And thus, with a totally underchopped and overdressed chunk of salad. A soggy piece of poo for the low price of eighteen dollars or however much.

I should've said something you say. Stopped her and her feeble salad making ways dead in its tracks? Jumped the counter and pulled the overflowing bottle of dressing out of her dangerous clutches? Grabbed the chopping knife out of her horrible novice palms and showed her how to chop like she meant it? Yelled at her and belittled her til she cried or beckoned the manager or until other kindler gentler customers tackled me to the ground and forcibly restrained me until the proper authorities could arrive?

But I couldn't. I couldn't really tell her how to make my salad right without sounding like a huge asshole. Firstly, I already look like a huge asshole for ordering a salad in the first place, right, cause only assholes order salads, especially of the chopped variety. And secondly, I mostly reserve being a huge asshole for this here blog, where no one knows me or sees me and I can hide and conspire in the safety blanket of anonymity. (In my other, "realer" life, I'm actually a tad more meek and a lot less wanker-like, but keep it to yourself, Doucheface.)

So now what? Now I'm left with a wet-ass big-bite salad. And it's just taking my afternoon in the wrong direction. And all was going so well. I'm gonna have to salvage this day somehow.

Any ideas?

Yours,
E.D.