For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a sincere love of mayonnaise. There are, however, limits to how far mayo should be allowed to voyage.
When I was sixteen, I dated a girl who had a strange secret; she used mayo on everything from bananas to peanut butter sandwiches. She even dipped her french fries in mayo.
I did my best to pretend that I wasn’t revolted by her curious tastes, but when I watched her slather Duke’s all over a wedge of watermelon, I decided I no longer wanted to be seen in public with her.
However, my most nauseating experience with mayonnaise happened when I was on the beach as a young man. I got stung by a jellyfish while playing in the water, and I screamed bloody murder.
My friend, a Coast Guard medic, jogged up to our cooler and retrieved a jar of Duke’s. He giggled while he smeared it on my lower leg, I shut my eyes and moaned like a hog in heat.
“You ain’t gonna like what I’m about to do next,” my friend set his beer down and stood up. “Just keep your eyes closed.”
All of a sudden, I had the sensation that someone was spraying my leg with a garden hose.
I screamed a very ugly word, and somewhere in the world, my childhood pastor probably experienced chest pains.
“Now, now,” my friend zipped up his fly. “No need to act all pissy.”