Refried Revenge.

You guys.  Oh man.  I have not been well.  And it is all because I can’t say no to bean dip.

That’s right.

So a few nights ago, I made a delicious bean dip with the works: salsa, sour cream, etc. Here’s how that went:

Bean Dip:  Hey.  I’m pretty freakin delicious over here, right?

Me: Om, nom, nom.  Crunch. Gulp.

Bean Dip:  That’s right.  Cause you don’t used reduced fat nothing.  Keep eating, chunk-o.

Me:  Well, I’m full, sooo…

BD:  Noooooo!

So I put it away in the fridge because for some reason I have a refrigerator that presumably keeps things cold and out of the food-poisoning temperature zone.  At least that’s what I thought.

So the next day, I have the munchies and who do I see?  My old friend, Bean Dip.

Me: Hey, BD.  I’m so happy to see you!

BD: Oh really.  Is that why I’ve been in there kickin it with Milk and Riesling?  I’ve seen you hang out with Riesling twice since the last time we talked.

Me:  Oh, well, I’ve been really busy and stressed out lately, so…

BD:  Whatever.  You’re here now. (strange laughter)

You guys.  This is important.  Never mess with a bean dip scorned.

Bean Dip woke me up at five a.m. with a punch to the gut.  And then another.  Tears were streaming out of my eyes, but I couldn’t move out of the fetal position.

Jean Claude Van Damme IS Bean Dip.
Jean Claude Van Damme IS Bean Dip.

Then Bean Dip apparently had been talking bad about me to my friends, Stomach and Colon, who passed the word on to a gang of their friends, aka the Digestive System.  So now, they are all pissed off at me.

I tried to placate Stomach with gifts.  Small ones, at first, like crackers.  She just threw them right in the toilet, the ungrateful heifer.  Bean Dip is long gone, but seems to have left behind some friends to keep up the gut punches.

Colon just kept screaming over and over again.

The Digestive System gang refused to settle down.  They just kept fighting amongst themselves to see who could inflict the most pain on my body.

I tried everything.  I even prayed to their porcelain god, kneeling before her, crying and heaving.  I asked her why she liked seeing me suffer this way.  “WHY?” I sobbed.

She whispered, “Bean Dip was a good friend of mine.  Now you will pay.”

Wait a minute.  Now I will pay?  What was happening the last five hours? Obviously nothing, because Stomach taught me the true meaning of the words I have nothing left.

Fifteen days minutes later, I used my last bit of strength to throw myself into the shower, where I cried some more about Bean Dip’s cruelty and betrayal.

Clean, and but a husk of my former self, I army crawled from the bathroom into bed and passed out for several hours.

When I awoke, it was to the sound of the Big Man’s ringtone.

“Hey, you think you can go get the kids? And what’s for dinner?”


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