Monday, August 5, 2002
Seems like everybody’s got something against salt these days. You can’t dip your French fry into the saltshaker in a restaurant any more without getting dirty looks from every overzealous health nut in the joint, like you just sluiced the skin off an newborn baby and stuffed it with StoveTop and onions. You’d think it was strychnine or pure Bolivian blow the way these shitbirds put on a sour puss. Well I hate to be the only pooper at the party, and I don’t want to give any of you politically correct folks an anal hernia, but I’ve just got to say it anyway:

Fuck you all, I love salt.

Don’t look at me like I just crawled out from under a rock on planet Neanderthal. I’ve read all the screaming headlines printed in vivid blood red about what doctors of today have to say about salt. That it’ll boost your blood pressure higher than Tim Leary in a hot air balloon and make your arteries hard like a fifteen year-old at the Playboy mansion. Doctors of today cross the street to avoid salt spilled on the sidewalk and wear full-body condoms when they swim in the ocean, I know. But you know what the thing is? The doctors of today are for shit.

I’m not kidding, they’re worthless. Remember a few years back when they decided that flying a kite was good for arthritis? Then all those old suckers were killed by lighting? Then the doctors decided that wine is good for your heart, so everybody ran out and stocked up on the vino, but then a week later doctors “discovered” that drinking too much wine will make you shit out your ovaries. What, do these guys own a chain of liquor stores or something? Every other day they’re pulling some startling revelation out of their collective ass, like eggs give you glaucoma or milk makes your feet stink. I swear to God these guys are filling out some kind of Medical Mad Libs they got in med school and are laughing their asses off as they fill them out at their posh doctor parties and make drunken prank calls to the press. I trust those guys about as far as I can throw a herniated disk.

So I’m not about to let these slappy sons of bitches ruin the great fun I have eating salt. And I do mean fun. I don’t care what it is, salt makes it better: steak, burgers, potatoes, salad. Even ice water. And don’t forget to salt your butter. Have you ever had unsalted butter? Sweet bland-assed Moses, I had some of that stuff on a roll once accidentally and I thought I’d had a stroke that paralyzed my taste buds. The mere memory of it gives me the shivers.

I don’t think people today realize how lucky we are in this day and age, to have salt available in the quantities that we do. Just the other day I enjoyed a salt-encrusted fudge roll at one of my favorite breakfast haunts, the Gravestone Mill. A simple pleasure, true, but just try and order yourself up one of those about 6,000 years ago. You just couldn’t do it. And not just because you weren’t born yet. Back in the day salt was rarer than a celibate high school girl and in many cultures was worth more than its weight in gold. This may sound crazy to your modern ears, but just imagine trying to choke down a doughy, overcooked baked potato with just some gold flakes on the top. Not too appealing, eh?

After that, when salt became more readily available, it predated refrigeration as a way to preserve food. Now that’s what I’m talking about. If I should ever stumble upon a time machine, you know precisely where I’m setting the dial. That had to be some kind of heaven on earth. All the salt you could eat, and nary a dirty look for your trouble.

Sure, folks only lived to about 30 back then, but when you died, I bet it was with a salty smile on your dry, crackled lips. Amen.

Back in My Day, Business Wasn’t For Crybabies
These days, it seems like you can’t rifle through a newspaper looking for the comics or pretend to read a magazine on the subway while starting down a young lady’s blouse without hearing something about the latest business scandal.

Stick a Fork in the Whole Damn Team
Hey, I can’t pitch like Satchel Paige. Hell, I can’t even pitch like Jimmy Page. But I’ll tell you one thing: the Macon Turdburglars are the worst team on earth.

I Know You Love Me
I have to admit you had me going for a while there, when you “broke up” with me, quit your job and moved to Tacoma. Things got a little weird when you didn’t leave a forwarding address and I started to wonder if we were doing okay.

Keep Your Hands Off the President’s Money
Once again the current political climate has brought out the worst in the spend-o-crats. In case you’re thinking that’s another name for a real political party, don’t be stupid.