Salads Are Dicks

Stupid hard to make salads

What’s the deal with salads? Why are they so fucking hard to make? Why do they have to be such dicks? I’m sorry if I’ve offended dicks, but that’s what salads are. Just a bunch of dicks.

“Why dicks?” You may ask. “Is this gender bias? Can a salad be a vagina?”

No, a salad cannot be a vagina. Thanks for asking. A salad can only be a dick.

“Why are you comparing dicks to salads?” You may ask.

Good question. I’m not. I’m using the word dick as an insulting word, like “Gosh, Marcie, don’t be such a dick.”

If you are of a certain generation, you may not know that a female can be called a dick, or in this case, a salad. Back in the day, the word Dick was only used as a nickname for Richard. God help Richard if he was actually a dick.

“Is that why we don’t eat more of them? “You may ask. “Because they’re dicks?” Yes, that’s why.

If you’ve never eaten a salad, you may wonder, “Do they actually taste like dicks?” No, they do not taste like dicks.

If you’ve eaten one recently and you’re probably thinking, “Gosh, my last salad didn’t taste like a dick.” I understand the confusion.

Let me clarify. When I say that salads are dicks, I’m talking about what a pain in the ass they are to make. So, we end up eating cookies and hamburgers instead. The smart healthy choice would be to make a salad, but who has the time?

This spirals into our doctors telling us that our BMIs are out of control and we should eat fewer Big Macs and more salads. But salads are like a full-time job and we already have full-time jobs. It’s a vicious cycle.

First of all, you need so many ingredients. You need lettuce, romaine, kale, or cabbage. Which one? You just stand there looking at all those greens, trying to decide which tasteless wilted thing you want to put in your mouth.

Then you gotta wonder, are they clean? If you got them at a farmer’s market, the answer is “No. You might even find a spider or a worm living inside them.” I don’t want to scrub my food anymore. Not when I’ve already spent a year disinfecting my bags and boxes.

Salad doesn't even feel like food anymore. It’s housework. I need to hire a cleaning lady just for my food. “Yeah, can you do the toilets this week, the oven, and the iceberg lettuce?”

Once you’ve spent an hour washing and drying your dirty greens, you need tomatoes. Screw tomatoes and their fancy variations. Heirlooms? Really? Who actually left those tomatoes to you? Some rich uncle? Way to gobble up those family heirlooms.

What about cherry tomatoes? Too small. Go back to the bush and finish growing, you tiny little shits. They’re not cute. They’re not finished. They’re the veal of the vegetable garden, baby eater.

Biogenetic tomato? Pass. I only like my fish with three eyes. Leave my tomatoes out of the laboratory.

Organic tomatoes? Isn’t everything organic? I don’t get it.

Also the spelling of tomato? Ever since Dan Quayle couldn’t spell potato, I have no idea how to spell any words that look like potato or tomato. Even when I write them down here, it looks wrong. Stupid witchy Dan Quayle and his potatoe spelling curse.

Now, it’s time for mushrooms. Mushrooms are fungus. They’re the athlete's foot of the garden. Also, I just found out, after half a century, that I’m supposed to rub off their dirt with paper towels, not wash them.

I feel like “Screw you mushrooms. Why can’t we wash you with the rest of the vegetables?” Mushrooms are fungus that demands to be treated like a diamond. Know thyself, mushrooms. Be authentic.

Now it's time for the onions. You’re not supposed to kiss people when you eat them. Or people aren’t supposed to kiss you. Or you’re supposed to warn people if they try to kiss you. That rule makes me want to go grab people and kiss them, which is totally frowned upon during a pandemic. Screw you onions and your sexy stinky mouth.

Then there’s the dressing. Don’t get me started on dressing. Everyone has their special salad dressing. “My grandma made this.” Or “I got this from a stint at the Waldorf.”

I once got hit on in a bar, by a guy who was bragging about his salad dressing. I might have misunderstood him, but that’s how I remember it. Salad dressing. Everybody’s can’t be created equal and who gives a shit about your stupid special salad dressing? That’s what you’re bragging about?

Finally, what if you're not a model and you want to add some food on top of those dirty vegetables? What if you want to put chicken or salmon or salami on your salad? Is it even a salad anymore? Or is it a casserole? Is it an open-faced sandwich? When does a salad stop being a salad?

Salads. Why do salads require so much effort? Because they’re dicks, just like I said. They’re complicated high maintenance, entitled, dirty dicks, who insist on being washed a certain way and aren’t any good the next day.

Again, my apology to dicks, especially ones named Richard.