Probably the biggest modern objection to salami is that it falls into that category of foods made from the leftover parts of other foods. A piece of salami, mottled in various attractive shades of pink and white, is like some kind of Frankenstein creation: a little beef, a little pork, and a lot of other stuff. Horse lips, for example.
Well, if salami is merely a hodgepodge concoction from whatever is left on the slaughterhouse floor, then give me a broom and tell me where to start sweeping, because salami, for all its faults, is delicious: salty, greasy, and just the right amount of chewy. It’s no wonder that the word “salami” is also informally used in baseball circles to describe a grandslam home run. It’s just that good. What other lunch meat can make that claim? Never will liverwurst be used to describe anything other than liverwurst.
And salami is versatile. Yes, it’s a sandwich staple. But it’s also great with scrambled eggs. And fabulous on pizza. How about as the foundation for a killer antipasto salad? Or simply rolled up and savored with my favorite: a tall, room-temperature bottle of Bud Light!
Also, salami doesn’t spoil like other luncheon meats. Try leaving a pound of ham outside on a hot day for a few hours. See what happens. Actually, I’ll tell you so you don’t waste food: it goes bad. Salami just gets more delicious. And more warm.
Some people think salami is bad for you. Yes, it’s high in the kind of fat that gives people heart attacks, but I compared the life expectancy of Italians versus the life expectancy of United States of Americans. Guess what I discovered? Italians live longer! Why? Because salami is literally the only thing they eat over there!!!
(Another quick note: We both know that Italians eat other foods besides salami, but I felt like it was okay to use a little “dramatic license” here. For the record, Italians also eat spaghetti and cannoli.)
Now I know salami isn’t “cool.” “Cool” people like that pretty girl from Boston Legal aren’t sitting around on their yachts in Beverly Hills snacking on salami. So what? Being a celebrity myself (very famous), I know a lot of those so-called “cool” people, and let me tell you something: a lot of them are very unhappy. Is there a correlation between their unhappiness and the lack of salami in their diets? I’m not saying yes. On the other hand, I am most decidedly not saying no.
All I’m asking is that the next time you find yourself brown-paper-bagging it, you give salami another look. Maybe you’ll walk away from the experience with a shrug. So be it. But maybe, just maybe, you’ll finish up that lunch with a smile on your face, the kind of smile that announces to the world, “Either I just ate a salami sandwich or else I’m wearing a little too much lip gloss.”
Now We Will Join Forces, You and I
NOW we will join forces, you and I. We will make sandwiches. The kinds of sandwiches that only two forceful people can make: ham AND cheese, bologna AND cheese, peanut butter AND cheese. We will pack these sandwiches into a wicker picnic hamper and carry them to the top of a hill. The hilltop upon which we eat our forceful sandwiches will overlook a carnival, created by us. We will call this carnival the Carnival of the Festive Raccoons!
There will be no actual raccoons at this carnival.
But there will be prizes. Yes, we will supply prizes, you and I. Big inflatable frogs, plastic key chains, noisemakers, enormous stuffed animals not in the shape of raccoons. And there will be games. Many games. Games of skill. Games of chance. Games that will be rigged so that nobody wins.
It will be an excellent celebration. We will eat our sandwiches and watch the townspeople enjoy this carnival honoring raccoons. We will delight in their confusion as children turn to their parents and ask, “Where are all the raccoons?” We will watch as the parents turn this way and that searching for raccoons.
Again, there will be no raccoons at this carnival.
We will sit atop that hill and watch the carnivalgoers, you and I. But they will be unable to see us watching them, unless they have night-vision binoculars, which will be very unlikely because we will employ security guards to frisk people for night-vision binoculars as they enter the carnival grounds. Our privacy will be of paramount importance.
THE RIDES WILL NOT REQUIRE ANY TICKETS!!!
Yes, carnivalgoers will be able to board any ride at will, regardless of height or heart condition. Pregnant women will be allowed to ride the loop-dee-loop and other nausea-inducing attractions. Even small children will be permitted to go on whatever ride they desire. It will be very unsafe. But we will not care.
We will join forces in not caring, you and I. We will eat our forceful sandwiches and watch the small, pregnant carnivalgoers injure themselves and we will say to each other, “That’s what happens when you allow the free market to run amok.” We will not know what it means when we say it, but we will laugh anyway. We will join forces in not understanding our own witticisms.
The night will be long and cold. We will bring blankets and a thermos filled with hot cocoa. We will pass the hot cocoa back and forth, not caring that we may get each other’s germs. We will join forces in not caring about germs or the fact that the marshmallows will melt into the hot cocoa, rendering the hot cocoa essentially marshmallowless.
We will sit on that hilltop all night, you and I. We will sit on the hilltop eating sandwiches, watching carnivalgoers, commenting on the free market, drinking marshmallow-free hot cocoa, and sending flares to the heavens.
The flares will be our master stroke.
You will hold the flare and I will light it. Then we will watch it shoot upward and explode. Flare after flare—maybe twenty or thirty of them in a row. The carnivalgoers will look toward the hilltop. They will think they are watching a really bad fireworks display. But we will know. You and I will know that what they are watching is, in fact, a really awesome flare display.
These are the sorts of things you simply cannot do alone. That is why we must join forces, you and I. We will be so much more powerful that way. So much more alive.
It will be a Carnival of the Festive Raccoons for the ages.
And then, in the morning, when it is all over, when the last carnivalgoer has trundled home, the last carnival light extinguished, the last cotton candy stand packed onto the back of the last truck, we will shake hands and go our separate ways. Then we will resume our feud, and we will not rest until one of us is dead.
Mordeena
HIS name was Rico, and he told me he was in “real estate.” Rico and I made small talk at the bar for a few minutes, and then he introduced me to a friend of his, a girl named Mordeena.
We were in a nightclub. One of those greasy, bass-heavy places where you have to shout to be heard. Rico wheeled a six-foot-tall blonde toward me, introduced us, and then returned to the bar to finish his drink.
“Mordeena,” I said. “That’s an interesting name.”
“It’s French,” she said, and even though I had taken six years of French and spent a year working in France, and even though I had known many French people but had never met any with the name Mordeena, I believed her.
Did I just want to believe her because she seemed so interested in me, so alert to my jokes, so complimentary of my appearance, never once mentioning my extra arm?
I suppose I did.
Within fifteen minutes it was clear we were destined to be together. At least it was clear to me. She was coquettish about the subject when I brought it up. “Don’t you think we were destined to be together?” I asked her.
“For how long?” she asked. And right then I should have known.
Within half an hour, she excused herself to go freshen up. Rico approached. “You like my friend?” he asked.
“She’s great,” I said. “I think we’re destined to be together.”
“I think so, too,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.
At first, I thought he had a facial tic, but slowly, as he continued waggling his eyebrows at me, the reality of the situation began to sink in. “Real estate.” He bought and sold “properties.” Mordeena was his pro
perty, and he was selling her to me for the night.
No wonder she didn’t mention my extra arm. Normally that’s the first thing people talk to me about; I rarely get past the topic of my third arm, the one that protrudes from my stomach and is considerably longer than my other two arms. No wonder she wanted me to believe that she was interested in me. Interested in me the way other girls never were, even though I often implied to them that my extra arm was capable of incredible feats of prestidigitation, which is a word sleight-of-hand magicians use, but which I have appropriated for my own.
For the first time, I began to wonder if Mordeena was even her real name.
I was offended. Offended that Rico thought I would need to find companionship with a professional simply because of my abnormality. But then I reconsidered. The truth was, I did need the help. I was alone on the road; the rest of the circus was back at the campground or cavorting around the town. I never liked hanging out with them anyway; I didn’t like the attention we drew to ourselves.
Flippy, the Seal Boy. Mr. Boulders, the Man with No Shoulders. The Girl with Two Heads. Elephant Guy, who really resembled a walrus much more than an elephant. They were freaks. Not me. I was well read and conversant in all manner of topics. I was politically active and articulate and sometimes listened to classical music even if nobody was around to hear me listening to classical music. The only difference between me and any number of other sensitive artistic men was that I happened to possess another extremity. The irony of that word “extremity” never escaped me.
As Rico continued waggling his eyebrows (maybe it really was a facial tic), I considered my options. Five minutes later the deal was consummated. Mordeena and I retired to my trailer at the edge of the woods on the outskirts of town where the show had set up camp. This was our last night. Tomorrow we’d be off for another town just like this one. And another after that. And so on.
I was nervous at first, but Mordeena was kind and slow, and soon we forgot ourselves with each other. I held her with two arms and with my third, I did things that made her gasp and shudder. I have spent my life among freaks and frauds and masters of misdirection. I know when somebody is lying to me and when somebody is not. Mordeena may have been a professional liar, but with me, that night, she told the truth.
Afterward, I slid her most of my week’s pay. She counted it out and put it in her dress pocket. Then she opened the door of my trailer and walked out into the night. I watched her through the blinds. Her feet crunched on the pinecones and gravel. Rico’s car was waiting. Mordeena didn’t look back as she got in, and they drove away.
My trailer smelled like perfume. My body smelled like perfume, too. It was a good smell and I closed the window so it would stay. I walked over to my kitchenette and stared at myself in the little mirror above the sink. I thought about the night I’d just had and tried to think of something witty to say in French, but couldn’t. It was almost time to pack up and head out, so I combed my hair and brushed my teeth and made myself a sandwich. All at the same time.
Using the Socratic Method to Determine What It Would Take for Me to Voluntarily Eat Dog Shit for the Rest of My Life
I am going to begin this dialogue with the assertion that I would never eat dog shit, and then, using a series of questions, I am going to attempt to persuade myself that not only would I eat dog shit, but I would voluntarily eat it for the rest of my life. Can I do it?
Would I rather eat a scoop of dog shit or a piece of bacon?
This is a no-brainer. Not only do I love bacon, but as I’ve already said, I would never eat dog shit. I would choose the bacon.
What if it was either a thimbleful of dog shit or ten pounds of bacon?
Setting aside my health concerns, I would still choose the bacon.
What if the bacon was made from people?
This one is difficult because both of these options almost immediately activate my gag reflex. I wouldn’t want to eat either of those things, but given the choice I would still have to go with the people bacon for the simple reason that bacon, no matter what it’s made from, is pretty much always delicious.
What if the bacon was made from somebody I knew?
This makes it a much tougher decision. As much as I wouldn’t want to eat anything made from people, actually knowing the person from whom it was made makes it far worse. (Incidentally, whether or not I know the dog that took the shit has no bearing on my decision.) Even so, I think about that soccer team whose plane crashed in the Andes Mountains. They all knew one another. What did they do to survive? They ate one another. I’m sticking with the people bacon.
What if it was somebody I didn’t know very well, and didn’t particularly like, but who would be killed in order to make the people bacon?
Now I think I have to switch my vote. If somebody was actually going to be killed to make the bacon just so I wouldn’t have to eat a little bit of dog shit, I’d probably allow that person to live, suck it up, and eat the poo, even if I didn’t particularly like the person. I feel like I would deserve some kind of medal for that, but I would probably still do it even if I didn’t get the medal.
What if, in order to save that person (whom I didn’t know very well and didn’t particularly like), I’d have to eat nothing but dog shit for the rest of my life?
This is really tough. I really don’t want to be the cause of somebody dying, but I also really like pizza and ice cream. But is my desire not to eat dog shit for the rest of my life stronger than my desire not to condemn somebody to death and eat his people bacon? I think it is: kill the guy.
What if I were the one who had to do the actual killing?
I am really not making it easy on myself here. It’s one thing knowing somebody is going to die, but it’s quite another to be the executioner. This is exactly why I don’t hunt cows even though I like hamburgers. Ultimately, my decision would probably come down to the method of execution.
What if it was poison darts?
If it was poison darts, I would definitely kill him just because that’s kind of awesome. I don’t need to get anything out of the deal. I might even voluntarily eat some dog shit just to have the opportunity to kill somebody with poison darts.
What if it was strangulation with the person’s own pants?
Wow. I don’t know if I’m mentally capable of strangling somebody, and the fact that it’s with his own pants makes it even harder. Talk about adding insult to injury. Do I have to remove the pants or will his pants be provided for me? I don’t want to take off a guy’s pants, kill him with them, and then have to eat his people bacon. Then again, my other option is not so great either. Could I have finally reached an impasse? No. I’d kill him with his own pants.
What if I could put Splenda on the dog shit?
I don’t know that Splenda would really improve the taste that much. What about salsa?
No salsa. Just Splenda.
I’d probably still have to kill the guy.
Okay, salsa.
Now I have to think about it because I like salsa and I feel that it would really cut down on the “dog shitty” taste. Still, my whole life? If I can alternate between salsa and Splenda, I might choose the dog shit. But probably not. Honestly, I just don’t think there’s a scenario in which I would save somebody’s life if it meant having to eat dog shit for the rest of mine.
What if it were your wife?
Totally depends on what day you ask me.
On a good day.
Okay, yes. On a good day I’d choose the dog shit.
It took a while, but I did it. Using the Socratic method I’ve figured out a scenario in which I would voluntarily eat dog shit for the rest of my life.
And when you think about it, there’s a potential upside to this scenario, too, which is that I’d have a pretty big card to play whenever we had a disagreement. Like, “Remember that time I voluntarily offered to eat dog shit for the rest of my life in order to save you from being strangled with your own pants and made into people bacon?”
On the other hand, her guilt, coupled with my resentment, could be too much for our marriage to survive. Then, what if we got divorced? It would be so hard to meet somebody new because my eating habits would be tough to explain, not to mention the fact that my breath would always smell like salsa and poo.
What, if anything, has this exercise taught me about myself?
First off, I’ve learned that my aversion to eating dog shit is much stronger than my aversion to eating people. Honestly, the more I think about eating people the less it bothers me. Killing people troubles me more than eating them (unless it’s killing them with poison darts, which doesn’t bother me at all). On the other hand, eating dog shit bothers me a lot and yet I would voluntarily eat it for the rest of my life in order to save the life of someone I love. I think this makes me a pretty okay guy. I didn’t need another reason to pat myself on the back, and yet I found one just the same. Thanks, Socrates.
Why I Used a Day-Glo Magic Marker to Color My Dick Yellow
Nothing great in the world has been accomplished without passion.
—GEORG WILHELM FRIEDRICH HEGEL
ALL my life people have told me not to color my dick with a Magic Marker; all my life I have listened to them. No more. There comes a time in every man’s life when he has to disregard the opinion of those around him and use a Day-Glo Magic Marker to color his dick yellow. For me, that time is now.
For what purpose? Man has been attempting to answer that question for as long as there have been seas to cross, mountains to climb, uncharted lands to chart. There is no answer other than to say, “Because I live.”
Just as Ahab had to hunt his whale, I had to apply Day-Glo Magic Marker to my dick. Folly or fate, desire or destiny—who can know the difference? All I know is that the idea has always been with me. How I stumbled upon such a notion I cannot say. Perhaps it came to me the first time I saw a Magic Marker and wondered what such an implement would do to my dick.
My Custom Van Page 5