Onion Feet

The apartment smells like onions. A big old nasty-ass red onion stanking up the joint. Smells like a big old nasty-ass foot. A foot that just went on a ten-mile run without wearing any socks and so now the shoe smells too. Gross, foot. Get out of here. Why does it smell like onion foot? Because I'm making slow-cooker barbacoa with a little help from my friend Rick Bayless.

I put the onions into the slow cooker first, which might have been my mistake. The slow cooker is slowly cooking the onions and their pungent odor is filling up the apartment and my eyes are crying and Vicki is looking all confused like "What the hell is that?"

Actually, now I'm slightly worried. Dogs can't eat onions because it destroys their red blood cells which could lead to Haemolytic Anaemia. But does that extend to smelling onions? Smell is connected to taste, right? So, ergo, if dogs smell onions, they're kinda tasting them. Right? Is that how it works? If that is how it works, that's hecka nasty cus dogs be smelling each other's butts and shiiiiiiii.

This Rick Bayless recipe is supposed to serve 6 people which means that, normally, Delma and I would have to eat this for 3 meals. Check my math, y'all. It checks out. Today is an abnormal day, though, because…

My sister is here! Kimberly is in my living room sleeping on my air mattress. Vicki is sitting next to her, keeping watch. Such a vigilant dog.

Kim got here yesterday and she's hoping to make it big in the big city. Kinda like how I did. Or tried. I'm still working on it. But Kim went to baking school and she can bake stuff so if y'all want cakes or cookies, order them from Kim.

See? Look how good that cake looks.

But with Kim here, that means that we'll only have enough barbacoa for 2 meals. Check out that math, y'all. 6 servings means 2 servings for 3 people. I used to be an electrical engineering major before I switched over to the highly lucrative and prestigious English major.

She's not saying anything, but I can tell she's stressin' a bit. I was when I first got here. Stressin' hardcore to the max. I came here three years ago (three years this Friday, actually) expecting to take the comedy scene by storm. Instead, I'm making slow-cooker barbacoa and my hands smell like onion foot. But I am happy.

Not everyone can be Bill Murray or Bill Clinton or Bill Russell. There's only room at the top for one. And I know that sounds depressing, but it's not. Really! You think Chevy Chase or Bob Dole or Wilt Chamberlain are super depressed? Well, maybe Wilt because he's dead, but albeit not reaching the success that Bill Murray has, Chevy Chase is still a legend. And Bob Dole is… Doing something. With Viagra.

The point is that you don't have to be number one to be happy. And I know that sounds like loser talk and maybe it is loser talk, but that doesn't mean it's not true. Will my life be over if I don't write a NYT Best-Seller? I mean, maybe. I might be dead. But that doesn't mean it will have been a waste or I wasn't happy. I am happy right now.

I have goals that I'm working towards, but I'm super happy. I count my blessings everyday. And I feel like I'm getting preachy so I'm going to stop getting preachy and start getting freaky.

Freaky deaky.

Happiness comes from within and all that jazz. That's what I'm trying to say. You don't need no accolades or awards. You just need a loving family, a loyal dog and a big pot of barbacoa.