I’ve been doing this thing where I just eat a butt-load of fuckin pickles. Sliced pickles, whole pickles, miniature pickles. And the pickle juice. All of it.
This isn’t some sort of thing where I’m exaggerating the amount of pickles I’m eating per day. It’s not like I’m just having pickles a couple times a week or I’m asking for extra on my McDouble. No. Let me be clear: I am eating pickles three times a day, seven days a week. Pickle frenzies have replaced my meals. For breakfast it’s a pickle frenzy. For lunch it’s a pickle frenzy. Dinner? A classic pickle shuffle followed by a dazzling pickle frenzy.
My hands smell like pickles all day. People at work are starting to notice. Like, Ted called me out on it yesterday. Ted. Ted never says anything to anybody. That might have to do with his comically egregious under bite. Or it could be that he’s going to shoot-up the place. Either way, I don’t like him. Underbites are God’s way of telling parents they should have a SIDS-related “accident”.
“You smell like pickles, Charlie,” he told me in the break room.
“That’s odd,” I feigned, stepping back in the corner to block Ted’s view of my locker because there are pickles in my locker.
“Are you washing your hands with pickle juice or something, dude?”
“What? Why would I wash my hands with pickles?” I turned around and pickle-shuffled my pickle-prize out of sight. Ted would have to go on a serious pickle hunt now if he wanted to find them.
“Because you smell like pickles, Charlie. Countless pickles,” he said, taking a step forward. At this point in the conversation I was worried for my life more than any white person has right to feel. And it’s not because I’m a racist– I am– but Ted is white just like me, and, like I said, this poker-faced rat fuck and his teeth are frightening. What if he touches me or something and I develop some sort of god awful under-bite like him? This is also something that bothers me about old people. It’s disgusting when they touch you. Like, seriously, don’t get your old on me. I don’t want my skin to end up like yours, old man. So thin and gross.
“You don’t need to be such a dick,” I said, talking to both Ted and myself.
“I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt that you’re only washing your hands with pickle juice and not all over your entire body,” he said. It was at this point I realized that Ted’s dramatic under-bite made him look like a piranha. A piranha with a job.
The drugs were working.
Ted continued: “Nobody should smell like pickles. Not like this.”
“This is sexual harassment.” I went on the attack. Ted wasn’t going to bring me down. No. The only thing that can bring a pickle glutton down is not having anymore pickles.
“I never mentioned anything about sex,” Ted reeled back, giving me some much needed room.
“There it is. You son of a bitch, you think I’m fucking the pickles.”
“Jesus Christ, Charlie. I never mentioned having sex with pickles.”
“There are no pickles, Ted.”
These pickles are kosher, too. You know, just in case you’re the kind of person who would object to a pickle Jesus Christ wouldn’t eat. Hey, I said “Jesus Christ” a couple times there in completely unrelated pickle scenarios. Neat. I guess He is everywhere. Good for Jesus.
So I did the right thing and went to CVS and bought a pregnancy test.