There are things in life that you enjoy. Then there are things in life that you absolutely love. The following are a few of my favorite things and my odes to them. I love them like a mother loves a child.

Dipping Sauce

I’ve said it once, and I will say it again.

Dipping sauce—like Freddie Mercury lets rip—makes the fucking world go ‘round.

Where would we be as a food-consuming society without the wonderful condiments known as Dipping Sauces? Where, I ask, where? We would be stuck in a gray, cold, bland world with no flavor and no pizzazz. That’s where we would be.

Life without Dipping Sauce is not a life to live at all. I guess it is comparable to living without a penis, if you are a male of course. Dipping Sauce and your dick give you something to live for, something to strive for, and something to die for.

A life without neither is no life at all. And yes, I have dipped my wick in ranch dressing. Don’t knock it until you try it, DON’T YOU KNOCK IT, BOY. Just ask Zubazkateer Paul Feuer, the man who literally dipped his scrotum into the vat of Barbecue sauce at Boston Market. And I quote, “It was like a baptism … and I’m a Jewish.”

But alas, this article is not about the schlong—nor the sacapuntas for that matter—it is about the Sauce that is used to Dip things in.

They are dry, lifeless and far less potent without the touch of that wet, adhesive substance known as Dipping Sauce.

And as much as that statement is true, there are those out there who refuse to accept Dipping Sauces as their one and only savior. They FEAR Dipping Sauce. They FEAR its power and glory. Like Patrick Swayze preaches in Donnie Darko, they are living a life imprisoned by the emotion of FEAR.

I should know, I used to be one of these people.

But oh yes, I saw the light one day … I did indeed.

For all of my years as a sinner, I knew I was leading an impure life … I knew there was something missing in my world. It was as if I were Judy Garland in the black and white portion of the Wizard of Oz. This life I lead was no life to lead at all. It was a sham, a farce, a joke.

But then came one fateful trip the Outback Steakhouse. Then came my Look Into the Eye of the Beholder.

Hypnotic, isn’t it? The Bloomin’ Onion Horseradish Sauce was my Messiah. I looked into the eye of Glory itself and became entranced. I heard a voice in my head, and it told me what to do.

”James” the voice spoke. “Take a piece of onion and Dip it into the Sauce we call Dipping Sauce.”

“B-but-but I’m afraid!” I said back to it.

“Do not be afraid,” the voice replied. “The road to salvation leads through the Bloomin’ Onion … as my only son Jake “The Snake” Roberts would say, ‘Trust me.’”

“Well, since you brought Jake into this … I guess I have to give it a whirl.”

How could I go wrong with the master of the short-arm clothesline and DDT? Never mind the fact that he is a crackhead.

I grabbed a peel of delicious deep-fried golden onion. I grabbed that piece … and splashed it into the eye of the God.

When I bit down my body was ripped up by the Tornado and thrown into a world of full color.

Yes, this was life. This was the way it was supposed to be.

Oh, Glory be to Halleluiah.

Cheryl Hines

Whenever I think about Ms. Hines, the beautiful wife of Larry David on HBO’s Curb Your Enthusiasm, I can’t help but start talking with a voice like Silvio the super on Seinfeld that enjoyed calling Jerry a “fancy boy.”

“Oh, your so beautiful … mmm, I want to kiss you … ohhh, I love you, you are so pret-ty.” (All while making smoochy faces)

I don’t know what it is about the woman, but I just think she is hot as hell.

And obviously it isn’t in the Playboy Playmate sense of the phrase either. There’s just something about Cheryl that makes her amazingly attractive. Maybe it’s the way that she puts up with Larry’s shit, maybe it’s because she is the seemingly perfect wife … maybe it’s because she gives road head.

Maybe it’s because of those big, beautiful teeth.

I don’t know.

Ok, actually I do know. I wasn’t going to tell you about this—it is very private—but here goes nothing.

One night I had a dream that I was making love to Cheryl. As Eddie Murphy would say in that shitty movie Bowfinger, it was “aweeeesome.” It was a night of lust like no other.

But that wasn’t all.

This torrid night of love was not over just yet. On the contrary, for it was just beginning.

Three were about to tango.

Now, I know what you are thinking … Larry David joined in, right? No, although I would even be willing to partake in that if it meant getting to Cheryl. I would obviously steer clear of that bald asshole, and things would be pret-ty, pret-ty, pret-ty, pret-ty good. Pretty damn good.

But never mind that, because Larry David had nothing to do with it all.

The other television wife of my fantasies joined in for this night of steamy love and hot sex. And lordy what a threesome it was.

Yes, it was Lois Griffin that made three quite the pleasuresome crowd. MmmmmhMMMM! Ay yay yay!

Needless to say, I never wanted to wake up.

I won’t get into the details of this racy, steamy, flesh and ‘toon affair, but I will tell you that I never felt more empowered in my life. I was on top of the world.

And when it was all said and done, I put one arm around each beautiful red-head in my bed, lit up a cigarette, and said, “God damn, LIFE IS GOOD.”

I <3 You Cheryl.

Hawaiian Shirts

I miss 1999.

For those that don’t know, 1999 was the year that Hawaiian shirts came back into style for a brief stint. And boy did I ever rock them. Well, not as much as fellow Zubazkateer Mike Morano rocked them, but I was know to floss the Hawaiian shirt, let me tell you.

But, as quickly as they stormed back into style, they disappeared again into the vortex that has swallowed so many other fashions that I have cherished. Bugle Boy, Zubaz Pants, Hawaiian Shirts, all were short-lived as I was long on agony.

But why, god dammit, why?

If pink shirts and popped collars can thrive in this day and age, why not the Hawaiian shirt? Is it because of the buffoons that generally sport them? Are they the ones to fault?

I feel that this is the problem. A few fat guys and some lame-ass Cruise ship comedians have ruined it for the rest of us. Those bastards. They make my blood boil.

Oh, how I would love to live in a permanent state of paradise where I could wear an endless stream of Hawaiian-themed shirts. But those sons of bitches have ruined it for me. They took a beautiful thing and crushed it with their bare heads.

They strangled all of the love and life out of the shirt, and now the rest of us are left with nothing but old memories and shattered dreams.

I will wait though, oh I will wait for that day that the fashion gods decree that Hawaiian shirts have waited on the outskirts—the fringes of society—long enough. The prison sentence will come to an end one day, and I will be waiting outside the gate of the penitentiary.

I will be waiting with open arms.

Our day is coming.

Thomas English Muffins

The nooks, the crannys, the buttery goodness … what isn’t to love?

There is nothing else to say about this glorious invention.

Questions or comments? E-mail Jim at Y2JimProblem1@yahoo.com