Shitty Ranch Dip (again). We Hold the Fire.

Question: Why can’t a man get a decent ranch dip? A man who deserves a decent ranch dip, a kind (kinda) man who has actually saved lives (OK, this was when I worked as a nurse and then once I saved three kids in Nashville from getting hit by a train, but I might have also killed a few people, one or two, so it evens out, right?), a man who knows that exactly 22 cigarettes were smoked in Casablanca, that Dom Perignon was a monk. A man like that buys a ranch dip like this:


And it sucks. I want to say: moldy pennies in the mouth, Marie. It is a kit of colorless dregs. Creamy like hard coal and socks. Like riddle me mildew. Consistency of a bloody nightgown, a great cloud of witchgrass, itchy. Smelled like lay still slosh, lay still slosh, like friends dancing at a false wedding, a false religion, a false love. How I hate false love. Like great art ignored again. It made me want to plant a sapling, just anything, plant a sapling on the forehead of my ugliness. I retched thrice. I hovered in layers of wet leaf-wine, in pools of seams sewn tight–I suffocated like God; like that, bleeding stumps of corny tsunami jokes/disbelief. Due to this dip, this dipping, this dipped deed, this curd of my life now soaked in milk, I am missing four fingers (two of each hand). I am missing my dull-witted responsibilities, my duty to arrange/rearrange words, blog, snog, wog, dog (you cur), daycare pick-up even forgotten (now my children lonely, possibly harmed). Fuck you, Marie. Fuck you and your flawless skin of divine mayonnaise (national food of Midwestakstan, its many friends, provinces) . Your mom is a strumpet, Marie, and she charged me 14 dollars. Your father a toad, raising eyebrows at every single authentic decision. You are sausage and ribs. Iron barrels of cancer and orthodontics. You are suck of soggy bread. You are chomping starchy mold-flecked Death. And other D things. Like kneecaps, dehydration, or days. Did I mention suck?

Also the taste, it bad.

It bad.


I wish it was spring, like the inside of my oven…


Like spring, no badness. Only warmth, a canoe, and flowing water.


Blogger, with best friend. Spring.



5 responses to “Shitty Ranch Dip (again). We Hold the Fire.

  1. “Blogger with best friend” is a great picture– And one that makes me supremely jealous on this very, very cold night.

  2. one more month

  3. I’m in awe of your dip-snubbing skills.


  4. a suddenly good new yorker:
    An aricle on tinitus.
    Updike excerpts,
    john mcphee piece,
    a fiction about space invasion

  5. I can not believe you, JD. But, if true, mail it to me.


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