Idiot Fondue: Case Study #38

Dear Dr. Brian,


  I was at Sonic this evening, and I had a small breakdown while trying to decide which of their designer hotdogs I should order. The Chicago? The New York? Stick with the standard foot-long chili cheese dog that they have had forever? It was very troubling. And then, after I finally made up my mind, the stupid lady who roller-skated out with my order slammed into the side of my car and spilled everything. Now I have a dent in my car and my weenie has been mashed. Should I sue?


Confused,
Violated in Oak Cliff

Dear Violation,

  Well, now. There are so many alarming things going on with your submission that I’m really not certain that a single person can provide proper guidance, but I shall certainly try, if only to be allowed the opportunity to address the significance of fast-food foot-longs. This is a minor side-dream that I have secretly harbored for many years.

  But let’s start from the beginning, as that is the point where most neuroses first gestate and then bloom into wonderful, twisted things that result in desperate people being willing to pay exorbitant consultation fees in order to untwist the madness that has led them to make poor decisions. (I am not complaining, by any means, of course. If it weren’t for misguided souls taking wrong turns, I wouldn’t even have a career. Bless the beasts and the blundering.)

  Anyway, why on earth would you consider Sonic to be an optimal food-intake destination? Surely you realize that the first ingredient listed on any of their products is “grease”, followed by “cholesterol” and then a double-play of carbs and processed cheese. As such, you really shouldn’t be surprised that bad things happened during your visit, since the mere decision to turn into the parking means that you have already opted to shorten your life.

  Now, to be fair, I can certainly understand the beck and call of an establishment where the menu is heavily weighted with fried foods. (Those cooks up in that place have an affinity for frying that is equivalent to the witch-burning frenzy of a certain town called Salem back in the day.) Fried, dripping consumables certainly have a cachet, and they can often provide comfort when your life is just not what it should be and it seems that your only recourse is to shove something larded into your mouth.

  In fact, there was a time in my own illustrious career when I had an infatuation with the jalapeno poppers at this very establishment. How I got to this low point is somewhat fuzzy to me now, though I do believe it may have had something to do with that soul-crushing time when I was falsely accused of inappropriate relations with livestock in France. In any case, I had a predilection for the poppers, especially when drenched in a vat of ranch dressing, yet another foul creation that does nothing to enhance your longevity.

  Many a night I would arrive at my local franchise, with the headlights turned off as I quietly slipped into the parking slot furthest from the bright lights of the building, back near the dumpster where the employees would heave the smoldering remains of artery-blocking foodstuffs that they had deep-fried but had been unable to sell before the items congealed into a solid, unappetizing block of irradiated waste.

  I would then use one of those voice-disguising machines that many of the current pop stars are using, wherein their voice is fine-tuned to something that is not their own, so that I could place my order in relative anonymity. And I always asked that “Lucrezia” deliver my order. In a random happenstance, she was a former patient of mine that I had saved from incarceration by creating a unique category of mental illness that had nothing to do with reality but certainly flummoxed the jury in her favor.

  Lucrezia and I were tight. She had secrets, I had a secret, and Sonic needed to move product. Nobody truly suffered in this arrangement, profits were made, and I was able to discreetly be a pig, sucking down ranch-enhanced poppers with a frenzy that would have resulted in crack addicts giving a standing ovation if they happened to be camping out near the dumpster and could actually focus on nearby vehicles.

  Alas, the joy was not to last. My personal physician insisted on inane things like regular checkups, and during the course of such, he and his coven of sexually-unsatisfied nursing assistants were able to compile data proving that the consumption of each single popper was the equivalent of shoving a wine cork into one of my arteries, and that I had roughly 37 seconds left on this warped planet if I didn’t put a halt to things.

  Initially, as is the basic human response when professionally chastised about dining selections, I severely hated the man and his white-smocked harridans, convinced that untoward things had happened in their childhoods that had led to careers wherein they tortured decent people for subversive reasons. But I eventually read some posts online
(because everything you see on the Internet is true, yes?) and realized that perhaps I was gnawing on improper things.

  My bad. I seem to have made this all about me so far. Let’s get back to you.

  And let’s talk about your affinity for weenies. You do realize that these are not healthy items, surely. It doesn’t matter if they are from Chicago or New York or are chili-drenched. These things are basically tubes composed of all the animal bits that couldn’t be manipulated into something that would warrant a higher price-tag in restaurants that did not involve a drive-thru option.

  Disregard the weenie, if at all possible. And if you must partake, try to have some self-control and avoid paparazzi. No one really wants to see themselves in blurry photos on the Internet, where you appear to be performing in a low-grade pornographic film from 1978. Unless, of course, that happens to be your thing. It’s not my place to judge. (Well, it actually is my place. But only if you are paying my consultation fees.)

  Now, this business with the wheeled strumpet careening into the side of your SUV. First of all, I’m a bit surprised that you didn’t realize this was a possible development at your dining choice. After all, Sonic (and many other establishments of yore) have a fine history of service attendants who are quite mobile. Back in the day, carhops were fully expected to shoot around the parking lot as if magically powered by jet fuel. Those whizzing servers were professionally performing a graceful ballet of food delivery and revenue extraction.

  Granted, you don’t see much of that these days, with nubile females hurtling about the concrete, probably due to the newer crops of employable youngsters who would much rather not learn a marketable skill in order to retain gainful employment. For some inexplicable reason, many employees today think they should be given wads of cash as income simply because they bothered to even show up at work, and not because they have done anything of note in a job-skill capacity. Perhaps that would explain this whole Wall Street mess that we’ve been dealing with for thirty years.

  And yes, the powers that be at Sonic did actually phase out the roller-skating angle for a while, at least around these parts. For many years, the servers were de-wheeled, forced to transport trays of naughty foodstuffs using only their own motor skills. This was not as exciting, both for the transporter and the recipient, and I would imagine that tips from patrons plummeted dramatically.

  What’s that, you ask? What’s this mess with tips? Well, kind idiot, you’re supposed to tip the people who slap that little tray on your window. It’s tradition. These fine delivery people are paid tiny base wages with the anticipation that they are going to be given generous tips from customers who clearly have some disposable income or they wouldn’t be eating here. It’s the same way it works at “regular” restaurants. This one just happens to offer more sunlight and fresh air.

  So anyway, the Sonic folks have wisely reintroduced the concept of server mobility at select establishments, and you happened to choose one of those locations. Ergo, you should not be troubled by the potential downside of allowing heavily-painted but still generally decent young women possibly losing control and slamming into your vehicle. (Roller-skating is hard work. Ask any mid-management executive who has had to kiss upper-rank ass whilst still satisfying the peons below him.) Bad things happen from time to time.

  Especially if the poor soul delivering your order has her body balance thrown off by the forty pounds of questionable meat and grease that you have stupidly requested. Essentially, the mass that dented your car is the same mass you plan on shoving down your throat. So my advice is simple. Ignore the dent, give the sweaty roller queen some extra cash, and deal with your messed-up weenie in the privacy of your own home. As we all should.

  Well, then. That about wraps it up for this round. Please speak with Lanae at the front desk to settle your account. And be sure to throw in some extra bonus bucks. After all, I’m wearing roller skates under this fine mahogany desk, and I’ve thrown a few extra ketchup packets in your to-go box….

Whizzingly,
Dr. Brian

10 Reasons Why Lip Gloss Can Make You a Better Person, Part 3

3. Lip Gloss brings all the boys to the yard.

  By the time I was in junior high, I was a High Priestess of lip gloss application and functionality. It had brought so much goodness to my life and I was eternally thankful for its creation, never spending a waking moment without at least three tubes within reach. Mom was slightly concerned about what she perceived as an unhealthy relationship, but she finally let it go, because in the end she couldn’t really complain about something that kept me busy and preoccupied.

  Besides, she still might be able to save my two younger sisters from following the twisted path I had chosen for myself. I was too for gone for redemption, but perhaps she could stop the wee ones from tumbling off my cliff. I didn’t bother to inform Mom that it was too late to save Mellie Jo. She already had numerous issues that were far more unhealthy than a simple infatuation with cosmetics. It no longer surprised me when authorities knocked on the door at all hours. I would just point at Mellie Jo’s bedroom door and then go back to drawing pictures of myself with mascara.

  And as for Little Sahara, well, there wasn’t much to worry about there. She had only spoken about five words in the last three years. As we all know, you have to be able to carry on a conversation if you plan on getting into any type of trouble that would be considered worthwhile. But at least Little Sahara did have one friend that she spent time with, so that was good. Granted, this friend was actually a stick that she had found in the backyard and named “Jenna”, but she seemed to enjoy their time together.

  Anyway, it was a Friday afternoon, and I had just left behind the hideous junior high building where I was currently serving time. Those people just didn’t understand me, and it was quite frustrating. Truth be told, I was in a bit of a mood, because the history teacher, an insipid man by the name of Mr. Lashua, has insisted on telling us about some stupid war rather than comment on my dress. I just can’t fathom why anyone would care about guns and treaties when I had a pretty frock.

  But at least we were finally done with that, and I was on my way to meet my best friend Chandra at the Dairy Queen. We had very important plans to make about tonight’s session at Skate Planet, because it was the first night of this season’s round of Friday-night roller-skating, and everyone’s position in the social hierarchy would be determined for the rest of the school year. It was critical that we be prepared.

  Unfortunately, there was a slight glitch in our planning. Mom had sent a note to school that I was responsible for picking up my atrocious little sisters from their baby school, and must keep them alive until Mom could return from some very important sale at Wal-Mart. Despite years of past pleading, Mom did not agree with my firm belief that life would be much better if the little attention-stealing munchkins would get kidnapped, thrown into an anonymous van, clutching each other in their matching outfits, and then never be seen again. I already had preliminary plans to knock down the wall between my and Mellie Jo’s room, so I could have a suite like Olivia Newton-John did.

  But the abduction would have to wait for another day, because if Mom got all distraught over the missing worthless siblings, my debutante arrival at the skating rink might be jeopardized. Therefore, I trudged the two blocks to the elementary school to pick up the little hag-lettes.

  Of course, I only stepped one foot onto the school property, and then just waited. There was no way I was going to actually venture into the building, because small people are annoying and of little social value. The little urchins would have to come to me. So I just stood there, tapping an impatient Earth Shoe and hoping no members of the skating royalty would drive by, gathering details for a potential scandal.

  Mellie Jo arrived first, of course, because she almost always had to leave the school building in a hasty manner, usually due to irrational actions on her part. This time, the front doors banged open, sending several unprepared kindergartners flying through the air, and Mellie Jo came thundering down the stairs. She glanced behind her, noting the position of her pursuers and calculating the exact seconds she would need for successful escape. Satisfied that odds were in her favor, she skidded to a halt, turned around, flipped a double bird at the still unseen hunting party, then resumed her flight, racing past me, the wind whipping the hem of my cute dress.

  “Mellie Jo!” I snarled, as Bonnie raced past me toward Clyde’s hideout. “We don’t have time for this. Chandra is waiting at Dairy Queen!”

  Mellie Jo dove behind a trash dumpster, and then peeked around the metal corner. “Two minutes and we can go. Those people are old and tired. They’ll give up.”

  I turned back to the school steps, just in time to see what appeared to be a janitor and a generic coach stumble out the front door. True enough, they were already huffing heavily and producing that nasty sweat that men do. (Women don’t sweat. They glisten.) After glancing around a bit, they finally sighed and went back into the building.

  I faced Mellie Jo again. “What did you DO? Does it affect me in any way?”

  Mellie Jo came out from behind the dumpster, throwing down a piece of rubbish that had interested her briefly. “Don’t worry about it. Nobody died.”

  Fine. I really didn’t care. “Now, where’s Little Sahara?”

  Mellie Jo made a face, because Little Sahara was her least favorite relative. “The cafeteria ladies are making pizza for some stupid meeting tonight.”

  Ah. No further explanation needed. Little Sahara worshipped pizza with a mystifying passion. A love that dare not speak its name. “Let’s go get her.”

  We rounded the corner of the building, startling two fourth-graders who were smoking. (We didn’t have cable TV at that time, and entertainment options were limited in our small town.) They squealed and ran away, terrified, especially when they caught sight of Mellie Jo. We proceeded to the employee entrance for the cafeteria.

  And there was Little Sahara, standing on a turnip crate and gazing rapturously in one of the windows. (She was holding her friend up against the glass, so Jenna Stick could see what was going on as well.) I think she was quietly mumbling some worshipful hymn, but the only word I could understand was “cheese”.

  “Little Sahara, it’s time to go. Come on.”

  “Pizza,” said Little Sahara.

  “I understand that. But you can’t have any. Come on.”

  Little Sahara whispered something to Jenna Stick that sounded somewhat spiteful, then she turned and hopped off the turnip crate. She started to reach for Mellie Jo’s hand, but caught herself in time and did not proceed with the fatal mistake. She clutched at my hand instead, and I was blessed with something sticky that had probably been on her little fingers for three days.

  We headed to the town square.

  Which took about three seconds. Once there, I glanced around for my friend Chandra. We both greatly loved making a grand entrance into Dairy Queen, but it was no fun doing that by yourself, so I was sure Chandra was waiting for me somewhere on the square.

  “That light is SO stupid,” smirked Mellie Jo.

  Fully realizing that I probably didn’t care, I turned to Mellie for further information. “What are you talking about?”

  Mellie Jo pointed at the single traffic light in the square. “It always blinks just yellow. It’s stupid and nobody pays attention. Dumb.”

  I smiled sweetly. I knew why the light was there. It has nothing to do with coordinating traffic on the quaint little streets of this trapped-in-time town. It was a beacon, alerting the rest of the world that my magnificent presence was located here. Just in case people needed to organize a parade in my honor or set up a coronation stand of some kind where I could receive kings. I sighed contentedly.

  Mellie Jo picked up on this. “Oh, just stop it. It is NOT always about YOU. Because SOME people have better things to do than give you presents.” Then she threw something in the gutter. Just what all did that little heathen pick up while she was behind the dumpster?

  Anyway, I didn’t listen to her. She was just bitter. People are always bitter because they can’t be as pretty as me or have as many friends. Maybe some day Mellie Jo could join the Air Force and appreciate the chain of command. You earn your rank, either through sheer birth-given natural skills or very hard work. There are no short cuts. You can yell and scream and fight for attention and throw younger siblings in the dryer all you want, but there are regulated steps to follow. If you aren’t born with talent shooting out your ass like me.

  There’s a shout from down the street, so me and Mellie and Little Sahara turn and look, wondering what banshee is begging for attention now. Oh look, it’s my bestie Chandra standing outside the Java House, which is Kirksville’s version of Starbucks, only with less of the foo-foo Italian terms and more of the corn-fed country girls who are just waiting to get pregnant.

  Chandra: “Get down here NOW! We have to figure out what color shoelaces you should wear when we first get to the skating rink

  I grab my sisters and head toward Chandra and her ability to bellow like livestock are on the loose. I’m really hating Mom for making me drag around these siblings, because I clearly have things to attend to and familial love should only go so far.

  So there I am, dragging Mellie Jo behind me as she squirms to run away and torment ugly people, and Little Sahara as she squirms to follow the Domino’s pizza truck that just shot by. When suddenly, in a total surprise, something catches my eye in the front window of the Merle Norman shop to my left. All sights and sounds around me fade into the distance, becoming nothing but white noise. I even let go of my siblings, because if a UFO needs to abduct them right now, that’s fine.

  Positioned front and center in Merle Norman is a tantalizing display of the latest lip product. It’s yet another version of lip gloss, which is fine, because there can never be enough, but this one is offering something new.

  The lip gloss has actual glitter in it, creating a shimmering effect that could help planes land. I immediately shove my face against the glass, a line of drool trailing from my chin. I cannot live until I have some of this sacred essence.

  Melissa Jo, clamoring up from the sidewalk where I threw her sorry ass after noticing Nirvana at Norman, glances at the window display. The blood drains from her face and she begins screaming in terror.


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