Damn. Ranch dressing was a mistake. When’s the last time I enjoyed Ranch? Never. Never is when. Always a letdown. Like when I killed that farmer with a birch log. Give me a break. One whack and he’s dead? Come on. Not a single scream. No pleading. Nothing. Very unsatisfying. Like this dressing. And since when is birch hard enough to kill a man with one whack? Birch is a soft wood. Should never have killed him. It should have been a starter, if you will.
Speaking of starter, here’s this stupid salad. With Ranch dressing on it. I don’t know what I was thinking.
You know, I’m a loser. I have numerous options and I settle for Ranch? Damn it. I should know better. I never learn. I’m so stupid! There I am squatting in the woods, six kids camping. Options like crazy. No one for miles. And what do I do? I panic. I head to town to stalk hookers. I mean, come on. Be brave. They have Parmesan Peppercorn, for God’s sake. Bacon Walnut. I had options. But I take the easy way out. I’m a loser, loser, loser. Just like dad said I was.
Would dad have picked Ranch? No. Never! He was always up to a challenge when he wasn’t belittling me. He’d have tried the Garlic Vinaigrette without hesitating. He was a beater. A kicker. He wasn’t the type to hide in the garage with a shotgun to surprise his dad like I did. He was bold, like Roquefort. He was surprised.
Roquefort compliments a steak dinner. It would have been perfect. It could have been perfect. If only mom stayed put. I could have been happy. Why’d she leave me? Thought she could hide in Maui? She was surprised to see me seize her. Ooh! Caesar. Why didn’t I go with that? I hate myself.
Even Thousand Island. It’s not the best, but it’s not Ranch. No one would judge me. Like the waiter. He thinks I can’t notice. I notice. I know he’s mocking me. He probably thinks I’m afraid of Honey Mustard. But I’m not. I’m a big man. I hear you, Jesus. I’ll show him.
A Serial Killer Regrets His Dressing
I have two words for you: Blue Cheese.
This was the weirdest thing I’ve seen in awhile. Who could possibly be afraid of honey mustard? Sheer silliness.
Synchronicity! I am writing a novel about a serial killer (serial mass murderer, really) who makes complex life decisions that involve condiments.
A person needs to learn not to beat themselves up over small decisions. It’s much better to garrote the homeless.