The Dip Is Gone, and Therefore I Must Depart

There is nothing left for me here, for I have eaten all the dip.


When I arrived half an hour ago, the world was bright and sunny and full of promise. But now, the guacamole is gone and I too must go.


I came to this potluck sponsored by the Rotary Club of Greater Tulsa to seek my fortune, but all I ended up with was a purse-full of 12-layer bean dip and a stomach ache.


“Bring your favorite dip and a big appetite,” the flyer said. “We’ll provide chips, light beverages, and good conversation.”


So I fasted for 27 days.


But you know what nine out of ten doctors don’t recommend? Breaking a fast with four pounds of artichoke dip.


The evening began its decline when my first chip broke under the weight of a sizable hunk of Alaskan King Crab dip. It quickly became apparent that the Rotary Club of Greater Tulsa did not have the budget for durable chips.


Instead, I was met with bowls of dollar-store tortilla chips, Ruffles Potato Chips, and to my horror, Pringles. Pringles! What is a person supposed to do with a Pringle? Pringles are to chips what David Spade is to a production of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. An absolute disgrace.


So I ate the dip with my bare hands.


The night took an even deeper nosedive when a poor slob plunged a saltine cracker into a bowl of buffalo sauce. Did college teach you nothing? While lowlifes pounded Natty Lights and threw up out of 10th story windows, I spent four years crouched in the corner, systematically teaching myself how to hold down massive amounts of Tostitos Chunky Salsa Medium.


I didn’t come to mess around. I didn’t come to mingle with two dozen amateurs who can’t handle their dip. Everyone kept asking each other what they do for a living. What do I do for a living? I eat dip. Why else on God’s green earth would I be here? I don’t care that you’re an accountant.


The Rotary Club of Greater Tulsa wasn’t ready for me and my dip.


I locked the door and barricaded it with chairs, forcing everyone to watch while I ate every last drop of blue cheese dressing, tzatziki, dijon mustard, heirloom tomato salsa, mango chutney, five-cheese fondue, Greek feta, blow-torched queso, purple eggplant dip, Hungarian three-chickpea hummus, herbed Himalayan Mountain Goat cheese dip, and an entire case of fish sauce.


They watched in shock and disgust and horror (and probably a lot of other emotions that may require therapy) as I downed every last bowl in sight. I did it with a huge smirk on my face and a large bib around my neck so as not to ruin my best blouse. There were cries from my captive audience, but did I stop?


Did whoever built Rome stop to rest when they were building Rome?


I don’t think so.


I ignored their pleas for me to halt, their hushed whispers of “Should we call an ambulance?” and “Not the bacon cheddar ranch.”


This had been my true dream all along. An audience forced to watch me consume dip. Honey mustard sliding down my chin and onto my neck, the crinkle of plastic containers being pried open, their lids tossed to the side and lost in the haze of Sabra Dark Chocolate Dessert Spread. Bits of cilantro, parsley, and leeks desperately clinging to my fingers…


I was extremely turned on.


I didn’t stop until there was not so much as a dollop of dip left in that Ramada Inn conference room. I strode out the door, my leaking purse leaving a trail of 12-layer bean dip behind me. I hopped into my blue Kia Forte and drove off into the sunset.


I never was very good at networking.