June 2, 2009
I used to like pickles when I was little. Except I only liked dill, especially the ones that came in a sack of pickle juice that you could get at the fair. Pickles and I were buds, we laughed at the same parts in movies, we danced together, and we even held hands when no one else was watching. But then one night I dreamt that a mammoth-sized pickle chased me in to a department store dressing room and made me try on all sorts of things, like a pair of coolots, and a silver track suit, and a bra, and then, as you could imagine, the pickle felt me up. I smacked it around a little bit to show it who’s boss, but then the pickle stuck me in a sack with pickle juice, and carried me around the store with its fat, green pickle hands clutching me tight. Once we got outside I noticed the pickle was wearing a bonnet and lace-trimmed boots, although it was hard to tell if the boots were lace trimmed, because everything looked green and distorted because, hello, I was being held hostage in a stinky pickle bag.
Then the pickle, wearing the bonnet and the speculated lace-trimmed boots took a giant bite out of me, and I died.
After that horrifying dream, I’ve never looked at the pickle the same way. I have no respect for it, and when I see it cowering in my sandwich, between my cheese and meat, I pick it out carefully, using only my fingernails, and toss it against the wall, and curse the day that the pickle was born.