The Onion Dip

Humor. And Dip.

Think You Have a Bad Nickname?




The fledgling comedienne Pam Putz recently confessed at a central New Jersey pub’s open mic night that her nickname is so embarrassing that it has prevented her from returning in six years to her hometown of Pottsville, PA. Stammering through her set up, Putz said that she had been a pretty decent singer in high school, “like Adele on 5-hour Energy.” A TV news station was covering her advances on a national talent show, featuring both nice and snarky celebrity judges, so a reporter interviewed her parents and some adoring fans in front of their house. “They told the reporter that I’d always been a songbird as a little kid, but once I hit poo-berty I really filled out nicely and my voice took on a different character,” said Putz, who suddenly succumbed to a coughing fit. “Wait—did they just pronounce ‘puberty’ as ‘poo-berty’”? She stared into the darkness. A glass broke behind the bar. “I mean, who says ‘poo-berty’? Who says that? Did they say that in the 1950’s or something? And why did they have to discuss my metamorphosis into womanhood with a reporter who had just asked if they were proud of me?” the comedienne riffed. “So, of course, all of Pottsville watched that interview, and I instantly became known as Pooberty Pam. This was worse than you think–it wasn’t just the boys in high school who went off on me. That weekend I was at the supermarket and the grandfatherly gent on the PA announces, “Good morning, shoppers, lobsters are only $7.99 a pound today, so join us back in the Seafood section with Pooberty Pam!” Four of the audience members grimaced silently, while the other, who works as a junior staffer at a leading cable and satellite TV network in its fast-growing division that develops shame-driven content, couldn’t wait to introduce herself to Putz.

Area Man Still Coping with Trauma of Grandparents’ Mortifying Greeting




More than 30 years after his grandparents cheerfully hailed him at Buchanan University, Thomas Crudupper is still struggling with episodes of severe social anxiety and disturbingly low self-esteem, according to his team of therapists. On that fateful late September Saturday, Crudupper was shirtless and sucking down an Oranjeboom Lager, deftly playing hacky sack barefoot on the lush lawn of the main quad, where a Greek Life Barbecue had attracted more than half the student body. After driving from New Jersey and making surprisingly good time, his grandparents had foregone checking into their motel and proceeded directly to the campus, even though they were scheduled to meet Crudupper four hours later for dinner. Spying their descendant, they waved and yelled over and over again, while approaching unbelievably slowly, “Howdy doo, Little Tinkus!” By broadcasting the freshman’s long-abandoned childhood nickname, the origins of which were murky, and combining it with an instantly unforgettable, archaic greeting–in a most public setting during an especially critical stage of socialization and acceptance for their grandson–the visitors unwittingly triggered Crudupper’s Mortification Resonance Syndrome (MRS). To this day, the sullen loner cannot bear to be greeted from a distance by an older adult, engage in hacky sack, cavort in public without a shirt, drink Oranjeboom, nor can he bear even the thought of that unspeakable name that he must carry forever.

Contemplative Woman Can’t Decide if Four Years is Like the Blink of an Eye or Interminable Torture



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Life insurance executive Ariella Sanchez, known to friends as a dreamy, thoughtful sort, prone to silent musings and what-if scenarios, is presently unable to measure how a four-year span “feels” to a rational, compassionate individual. On the one hand, it could be like her tenure at Vassar, in retrospect a blur, a mere finger snap in her rich adulthood on this ever-wonderful planet. On the other, it could equate to her third marriage–endless, soul-ripping torture, with each day bringing bad news and acute agony.

Despite Vastness of their Home, Family Always Up in Man’s Grill




After settling into his new 5,250-square foot McMansion, which features a bowling alley, recording studio and an empty room referred to as “the library,” Victor Biswas bemoaned his inability to stand in one friggin’ corner for two minutes without his wife or children invading his space. He bitterly recounted last night’s debacle, when he was standing in front of the refrigerator about to enjoy a few spoonfuls of artisanal ice cream, and his wife Shama unilaterally decided to reorganize the freezer’s contents and recite a list of groceries for him to acquire today. With increasing acrimony, Biswas described his recent attempt in the theater to browse his extensive DVD collection for a clever, well-executed superhero movie he had not seen enough times, which was promptly discontinued when two-year-old JJ placed the lure of a play fishing rod into the back pocket of his chinos and tugged repeatedly, then resisted a hug and ripped his father’s one truly comfortable t-shirt. As the culmination of his rant at his law office, Biswas acidly discussed last Sunday afternoon, when he privately decamped to the downstairs bar and poured himself a straight small-batch bourbon that was naturally doomed to be spilled before it could even be sniffed, as he was hit in the head and upper torso by not one, but two Frisbees tossed exuberantly by his five-year-old twins, Aphrodite and Venus, who bossily conducted the first stage of clean-up themselves before their father ran outside to seek shelter, even though it would be fleeting, behind the cabana.

For Next Strikingly Original Composition, Songstress Torn Between the Usual Subjects




The precocious, astute singer/songwriter, Peere, is currently seesawing between insanity and comfort as the topics for her next composition, this blogger can report. At her recording studio, Peere was observed chanting to herself phrases such as “going crazy” and “losing my mind” while growing increasingly agitated. She subsequently experienced a sedate period, calming an invisible character with the assurance “it will be all right, it’ll be OK.” When that ended, she was seen flipping a coin. The 18-year-old Peere is recognized as the unerring oracle of her generation based on her wildly successful, self-titled debut album and its hit single, “We Savagely Agree,” in which she described a divided, clique-obsessed high school student body looking for common ground despite the dominance of a few despicable, rival alphas. In past interviews Peere has discussed her intensive study of pop song craftsmanship and last week confided that you simply can’t go to the well too often (she confidently noted, “like, a thousand tracks on the charts the last 20 years can’t be wrong”) with well-trodden, simplistic expressions of impending derangement or communal assuagement. The icon of adolescent honesty kept it real by asserting that she is and has always been in complete control of her wits and that, when you look around, things are messed up and certainly worsening by the minute.

Rent Adele’s Ex for Excruciating Torment, Priceless Inspiration




The ex-boyfriend of Adele today announced he can be hired for a week of conjugal discord that will sear one’s soul and ultimately unleash previously unknown creativity and popularity. Sparky Murgatroyd of West Norwood said that, for every lucky person who pays his fee, he will attempt to recreate the week that he dated Adele Adkins when they were young, 16, and reasonably free. Although he ain’t a kid no more and he’s got his head in the clouds, Murgatroyd will faithfully recreate milestones from his romance with the future pop superstar, such as rolling his banger in the deep of his patron’s mash; whispering sweet aphorisms including, “Sometimes it lasts in rugby but sometimes it hurts your head”; saying things that were never true, never true; taking up with a younger girl and sorely missing the patron as rumor has it, and then leaving the patron on the other side of the pub with nothing to do but repeatedly scream Hello. After making a fool of the patron and bringing her or him down, Murgatroyd will awaken emotions and inspire new ideas guaranteed to propel the patron to the highest heights of productivity and fame, regardless of the field of desired expertise. The only caveat in the offering documents is that the patron will incorporate the abject pain of the week–when one could have had it all with Murgatroyd–throughout future work and forever wish to find someone like Murgatroyd, while wishing the best for him and his next patron.




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In his eulogy for the man he loathed, Lazarus Dumthwacky related how one day his father watched him take out two painkiller pills and awkwardly jam the cotton back into the bottle, and then absolutely lit into him—questioning his manhood, intelligence and capability to navigate this modern life—before revealing that the cotton was meant to be discarded after removal. “I told Da-Da I didn’t know the cotton was employed only to preserve the integrity of the tablets during transportation, Dumthwacky confessed, “I thought it kept the medicine fresh.” His response prompted a more vicious character assault that dwelled on the daily shame the father experienced whenever he considered his only child. The episode awoke and transformed Dumthwacky, a credit risk analyst, and made him the man he is today, he robotically told the dry-eyed mourners.





After Fox News announced that Tucker Carlson will replace Megyn Kelly as the host of its 9 pm program, the population of Americans who have or plan to put on a snotty and petulant persona for monetary gain welcomed the move as a substantial, timely validation. In contentious conversations with this amateur blogger, many praised Carlson’s cultivated indignation when interviewing liberals, and particularly admired his negative openings to questions (“Isn’t it true…) that signal and expose lefty sanctimony before they are even answered. Others pointed to the measured quality and quantity of Carlson’s sneer when in the presence of the politically correct, which contributes to the newsman’s consistently high scores in the rating of faces that most want to slap repeatedly with force. The individuals contacted reported varying degrees of success in staying in the snotty, petulant character throughout the workday—for a few there is no difficulty at all—yet all claimed the pose contributed to career advancement and earnings increases that will likely accelerate due to the Carlson Effect.





Last week Bob Dylan found the aid employed in writing every single line of all his songs since the early 60’s, and the Nobel laureate in Literature is reportedly polishing off new compositions for a celebratory tour of Sweden. Friends say when the Nobel committee left messages for Dylan about his award, he was ready to fly to Stockholm, deliver an acceptance speech, unveil new works and bask in yet more glory, but quickly became alarmed when he could not find Stimson’s Book of Middle-School Rhymes, which he’d acquired in a Minneapolis bookstore as a teenager and carried ever since. The little-known reference work, long out of print and not immediately available, is known for cross-listing monosyllabic rhymes such as “known” with “stone” and “kings” with “things,” as well as for recommending that singers adopt quaint dialects and emphasize the crap out of every rhyme while smirking in order to keep an admiring audience’s attention. The same friends passed along drafts of lyrics for the new songs Dylan intends to mutter under the shadow of his hat brim between redundant harmonica outbursts that some scientists have compared to the cries of baby songbirds learning to vocalize. Here is a fragment from a number tentatively called “Oh well, Nobel”:

One man dreams of dynamite

The other strums all through the night

On a guitar that drains him like a parasite

And after crying, explodes


One man weighs his legacy

The other thinks he must pretend to be

A truth-telling, dust-dealing prophecy

On the signpost at the crossroads


Oh well, Nobel, the shame is in the prize

When the winner bows his head and the losers realize

Oh well, Nobel, the shame is in the prize

When the saint pulls down his halo to hide his brimming eyes


The leaking of these lyrics, which may be revised after more consultations with Stimson, is intended only to add to the enjoyment of Swedish music lovers.

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