I was busy on Twitter stressing out about America and pretty much everything everybody’s pissed about, when I decided to buy a Relax The Back® Zero Gravity Recliner to try and quell some of my chronic back pain and generally just, you know, clear my head.
I had been sitting in the recliner for four or five hours running through scenarios where spending three grand on a chair makes sense, when out of the blue, my mind wandered to the creamy green goodness of Celery Victor. This—of all things—was the long-awaited moment of unadulterated ecstasy I had been looking for.
Who knew chef Victor God-damn Hirtzle would be the answer to this crippling punching bag of a life we’re all living. Finally, the president’s yellowing quaff meant nothing to me.
With all the shit that’s currently shoving it to the world, it’s close to impossible for me to think about anything without being driven up a wall, through the roof, to be met by a Korean warhead. In a last ditch effort to preserve my sanity, I turned to meditation, that recliner, listened to jazz, and practiced holding my breath. But what convinced my heart rate to slow to something halfway relaxed was the creamy insatiable purity of my Celery Victor muse.
To be clear, I generate perplexing amounts of anxiety from everything nowadays. It’s not a clinical disposition, I just get stressed out by a lot of stuff. Like, constantly worrying about how the rising student debt crisis is going to come a knockin’ on my two daughters' bedroom door calling for them to runaway to some island with it.
In my previous normal thought process, I’d go from, “Oh my God, I still have to mow the lawn and it’s already eight,” to “Oh my God, Eric Trump got that haircut,” and finally one giant, “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.” But now, ever since the neurons inside of my head decided to randomly assign the insatiable tranquil visage of that refrigerated marinated celery dish into my thought processes, I don’t have to give a shit anymore.
Fuck it. Let my daughters drown in debt. I could spend every blinking second thinking about Celery Victor. Celery Victor is my internal Pax Romana. My Magna Carta. I’m willing to go so far as to send high gloss photographs of Celery Victor to Hamas rebels and the Israeli Defense Force just to see what happens.
I swear it’s like heroin for the soul. Who needs to reach Nirvana when you can just make Celery Victor and look at it? Wait let me back up. Cooking is entirely too demanding and high stress. I repeat, do not make Celery Victor.
My point was, just try thinking about it because it really is the only thought that crosses no lines, offends no human, incites no riots, and best of all, sets you adrift on cloud freakin’ nine. Seriously, I challenge you to name something else that can do that. The Care Bears can’t. Hours of “Corgi Beach Day” videos can’t either.
You’ll say, “Why don’t you picture the songbird caroling her morning warble, or imagine the scent of dew on a fresh cut lawn?” And I’ll reply, “Okay, why don’t you envision life's blessing, that savory creamed entree? The Celery Victor. The way those Lincoln-Logged celery sticks carefully interlock, one on top of the other in perfect succession. The carefree dance of the celery leaves on top of their stalky descendants, co-mingling in a bay of Dijon and chicken broth.”
Holy shit. There it is again.
Your “No Bad Vibes” T-shirt is soft-core chill at best. Your “Keep Calm and Carry On” wall art doesn’t mean jack. Turning off Twitter won’t help. Trust me, I’ve tried all methods to pacify my headspace. The only thing that will keep you, me, and this godforsaken planet from falling off its axis is Celery Victor. It’s the only good thing we’ve got left, and as long as David Duke doesn’t find out about it, it will never let us down.