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foister von ripster
November 2009 
ARE THERE NO ONIONS IN PARIS?!?
Posted on Sep 3rd, 2008
by 
Dryad
Dryad
ARE THERE NO ONIONS IN PARIS?!
Gracious Goodness! and all other alliterative ecphonesis turned inside out! I am about to post the second Blog in one day. The one this morning was enjoyable to do. This one is necessary. You see, I have done something tremendously treacherous and I must try, somehow, to redeem myself.
I didn’t really do it on purpose, it was more a matter of last minute showmanship. A bit of unnecessary slapdash upon the title line of a message to an unsuspecting and trusting soul.
I sent a message to Micky D. and headlined it “Liver and Onions” when in truth, the entire message was about liver; cow’s, calf’s, David Crosby’s X3, mine . . . There, in truth, was nothing in the entire message having anything to do with onions. I admit it. I was showboating the subject line. I went and whetted poor Micky’s apatite for ascalonicum with, evidently, no way to sate, satiate, surfeit or otherwise save himself from ONION HUNGER. It’s drastic. The poor man is threatening to: “wranting & wraving & gnashing my teeth, in Irascible ire, unless you provide the onions, I may even seethe & froth at the mouth a little( for extra dramatic effect.) Dramatic, INDEED.
I immediately ran to the garden and began digging frantically, plucking the paper skinned wonders from the good black Oregon earth where they grow so fat and fine. When I had a respectable satchel, I hied quickly for the highway and began desperately trying to flag down an airplane bound for Paris. It’s odd. Not a one has stopped. I must admit that I even resorted to drastic measures in an effort to save my friend.
SAVE MICKEY!
And I do mean DRASTIC. Do you have any IDEA what a horrific cliché this is?! Disgusting! But I hate to think of a grown man crying. (ouch.)
I’m going back to the highway Micky . . . somehow, someway I will get on a plane for Paris with my sack of succulent sustenance and I will save you! Somehow.
In the meanwhile, let me try a little remedy that I think they use on me. If we can’t make it better, lets make it worse and see if you don’t bounce out of it . . . or something. My own files yielded three (COUNT THEM! 3!) Pieces regarding the spicy snack. I’ve even got paintings! YES! Honestly, I know it is hard to believe, but I have done a painting of onions. Perhaps it will see the Mickster through until I make it to Paris with my reeking remedy.
To use this first piece, I am going to have to ~ regretfully ~ introduce you to one of my . . . less elegant alter-ego’s. This is a pen name. I hesitate to call him a 'nom de plume' which sometimes is "Literary Double." Old Foister is about a Quadruple-By-Pass rather than a double. He certainly isn't the one I would choose to be my "double." Still, if you know me, you know that none of my pen names exist in a vacuum; they have to have a personality. This one is *quite* a personality. It is with a surplus of superfluity and a excess of embarrassment that I introduce you to
Himself
the Lord of Misrule
Ace of Anarchy
Duke of Disorder
~ Foister Von Ripster ~
the Lord of Misrule
Ace of Anarchy
Duke of Disorder
~ Foister Von Ripster ~
This particular poem was penned by Von Ripster on an occasion that was almost the antiphrasis of Mickey’s. A fellow Bard by the name of Dilyn detests onions. This was caused by working his way through college at Pizza Hut. For the first two years all they would let him do was cut onions. And cut onions. And cut onions. Dilyn no longer cares for onions. Foister ~ being Foister ~ likes to take any occasion to torment anyone particularly if he can do it with words. Below we have him doing just that. As the subject became “The Dreaded O” the Bards all seemed to lose every scrap of ethics and propriety; soon puns were flying fast, loose and . . .vile.
The Dreaded "O"
Onion’s Progress
~ Foister Von Ripster ~
For Friend Dilyn
May You Never Be Without That
Rotund Rascal You Love So!
{ Would That Be The Dreaded Onion, or I?}
Onion’s Progress
~ Foister Von Ripster ~
For Friend Dilyn
May You Never Be Without That
Rotund Rascal You Love So!
{ Would That Be The Dreaded Onion, or I?}
Such a small thing, full of layers
To turn us all to vile players
Oh! The punsters we’ve become
Because of Ascalonicum!!
Poor Dilyn’s nightmarish fears
From a haunting vale of tears
Soon we’ll hear the poor man screaming
Chopping ‘til his eyes are streaming
Gashing, slashing, cleave and cut
Foul memories of Pizza Hut!
And Bards who once were all so chic
Now laugh until they start to leek
Poor fellow must be so distraught
They all have gone eschalot!
Wicked night-mare’s turned to stallions
Distinguished Bards are now rap-scallions
Vidalia, Bermuda, Italian red
Like a noxious wind, the scourge is spread
The evil of this baneful fruit
Goes all the way down to the root!
Save your eyes from scent that stings
Just say ‘NO!” to onion rings!
Like a warning tale from old John Bunyan
Damnation, hell . . . the cursed ONION!
ONION
The following story was my way of trying to repent for my alter ego’s nastiness. I know. I know. It gets confusing. Don’t worry about it, just read the story. It is for Dilyn and for all the “middle children” out there, who like me, sometimes just go through the cracks.
And especially for Mickey . . .
M*I*C*K*E*Y* O*N*I*O*N*
Sing with me boys and girls . . . Micky Onion, Mickey Onion, Forever let us hold our Banners High! High! High! HIGH!
M*I*C*..........................See you REAL soon!
K*E*Y*.........................Y? 'Cause I've got ONIONS!
O*N*I*O*N*
K*E*Y*.........................Y? 'Cause I've got ONIONS!
O*N*I*O*N*
Hang on Mickey! One of these Airplanes has GOT to stop soon! . . . . Meanwhile . . .
A Story about Stars . . .
A Story of the Pleiades
~ The Legend of the Pleiades ~
Once Upon a Time in a land that was far, far away . . . just how faraway was this land? Well, it was further away than the corner, but not as faraway as forever. It was as distant as tomorrow, but not quite as remote as later. In this land, which lay beyond the tall blue mountains, but not behind the clouds, there lived seven sisters.These sisters were named, Ona, Oneida, Oni, Ondrea, Onella, Onora, and Onyekachukwu. Ona was the oldest, the most practical and pragmatic. She was the best at problem solving and figuring things out. Onyekachukwu was the youngest. She was flighty and frivolous, given to giggling and telling off-color jokes that made everyone laugh. Oneida had the voice of a lark, Oni painted marvelous pictures, Onella had read all the books in the library, Onora knew everything there was to know about numbers Ondrea fell right smack dab in the middle. She was the best at . . . well come to think of it, no one really knew what Ondrea might be good at. People often forgot that Ondrea was there at all. If Ondrea had suddenly gone missing and they had counted themselves and only found six, they would have spent several puzzled moments feeling very blank because the missing name just would not appear in their heads. What did she look like after all? What color did she wear? It was hard to remember.
The answer was red. Each one of the sisters wore a different color. Their parents had thought this up as a good way to tell them apart. It would have been too, if they hadn’t kept forgetting which child they had assigned to which color. I will tell you, though you probably won’t remember either. Ona wore green, Oneida wore turquoise, Oni was always seen in yellow, Onella in pink, Onora in purple and laughing, giddy Onyekachukwu always wore orange.
Did you notice that Ondrea was missing? No one else ever did either.
Now, the most notable thing about these seven sisters, and, indeed, the point of this story, was that these seven sisters loved nothing in the world so much as onions. This enjoyment of onions was not just a preference, it was a passion; it went far beyond just a fondness or fancy and was closer to a madness or mania; an obsession that many people felt was slightly unbalanced. These seven sisters LOVED onions.
They loved green onions, red onions, purple onions, yellow onions and white onions. They loved Vidalias, Bermudas, Carzalias, Nu-Mex, Imperial, Maui, Hawaiian Hula and especially Walla Walla Sweets. These sisters loved onion soup, onion salad, onion quiche, onion sandwiches, onion rings, caramelized onions, grilled onions, barbecued onions, raw onions and everything in between. It is said that they even made onion margarita’s, but to ask you to believe that would be stretching your incredulity a bit farther than incredulity ought to stretch. It is quite true, however, that they were all fond of Gibsons.
They loved to listen to the Beatles White Album just to hear “Glass Onion” and they realized that onions had prescient powers.
"Onion skins very thin,
Mild winter coming in.
Onion skins very tough,
Coming winter very rough."
Mild winter coming in.
Onion skins very tough,
Coming winter very rough."
These sisters knew full well that the ancient Egyptians actually worshiped the onion, that the shape of the onion symbolized eternity to the Egyptians who buried onions along with their Pharaohs. The Egyptians saw eternal life in the anatomy of the onion because of its circle-within-a-circle structure. Paintings of onions appear on the inner walls of the pyramids and in the tombs of both the Old Kingdom and the New Kingdom. The onion is mentioned as a funeral offering and onions are depicted on the banquet tables of the great feasts. Onions were always shown upon the altars of the Egyptian gods. I’m not going to go as far as saying that these seven sisters actually worshiped onions themselves, but there were suspicious onion shaped Objects d'Art all around their house.
The greatest dream of all of these sisters was to someday become the Payson Onion Queen and rein over the Golden Onion Days. None of them ever realized this dream, however, because Far, Far Away was just too far away from Payson. Still, in due time, as the years went by, each of these seven sisters fell in love and was married. They each walked down the aisle to the sounds of Booker T and the MG’s singing “Green Onions” carrying a bouquet of those same long steamed
Green Onions. One by one, they left their parents home to set up house keeping, taking with them their onion statues, framed portraits of famous onions and samplers that they had cross stitched with such messages as:
"I will not move my army without onions!"
~ Ulysses S. Grant ~
"Life is like an onion.
You peel it off one layer at a time;
And sometimes you weep."
~ Carl Sandburg ~
"Mine eyes smell onions: I shall weep anon."
~ William Shakespeare ~
~ Ulysses S. Grant ~
"Life is like an onion.
You peel it off one layer at a time;
And sometimes you weep."
~ Carl Sandburg ~
"Mine eyes smell onions: I shall weep anon."
~ William Shakespeare ~
"If you hear an onion ring, answer it."
~ Anonymous ~
~ Anonymous ~
They also took all their favorite recipes. There was one thing that could always be said with great truth and gusto: the Onion sisters were good cooks. Each husband counted himself lucky and smiled upon by good fortune. At the beginning.
As the years went on, however, it became evident that the sisters passion for onions was not waning or weakening, but only growing stronger. All of their husbands began, in subtle ways, to become restless and discontented. They initially claimed that it had to do with being sick and tired of every meal they were served being full to brimming with onions.
They also let it be known, through insidiously dropped hints, that their unhappiness had to do with . . . well, we might as well come right out and say it: olfactory offenses. They slyly spread the rumor far and wide that they were all suffering and sad because of smells.
The sisters, of course, knew that this was piffle and poppycock; trash and twaddle; bilge, blather and balderdash. Though it was a closely guarded secret, each of these seven sisters was the possessor of the deep, hidden mystery of the Knife’s Templar. This clandestine key is known to few on earth now, but these seven sisters were all initiates of this secret sect and recipients of it’s shrouded alchemical knowledge.
You all know the story. It is told that once Woman had the unmitigated gall to assume she could handle Knowledge. Accordingly, she took a whomping big bite right out of the Onion of Knowledge. Of course she was eternally punished for her presumptuousness. She was immediately expelled from the Garden of Onion. A Great Voice was heard to speak, saying: “With weeping will she chop now. In sorrow and flowing tears, will woman bring forth the onion.”
Everyone knows this story, but not everyone knows the secret story which tells how the alchemy of tears can be altered, the vale of weeping averted, the tale that tells how an onion can be chopped without it’s sulfuric compounds being released into the air. This is hidden knowledge. This is the mystery.
This mystery, along with a specific ritual, was gifted to mankind soon after the dawn of time by Raptor Spirit, the Great Papa Falcon. It had been handed down in secret for generations upon generations. I will tell you the mystery and the secret ritual, though it’s possible I may have to kill you afterward.
The first part of the mystery is held in three words. These secret words are accomplished as the first feat. In beginning, the initiate holds The Orb toward the moon and chants these words: “Chill. The. Onion.” The initiate then does exactly this, under cover of night.
After secretly accomplishing the first feat, the second feat is begun. The initiate performing the ritual holds a knife up sidewards and lifting it carefully against their nose in salute, chants the second part of the mystery. “Never. Cut. The. Root. End!”
Firmly grasping the onion, the initiate slices slice off the tip opposite from the root end. They then slice the side of the next layer and peel back to form a handle over the root stub.
By using this ritual and remembering the mystery, the sulfuric compounds are held in check, though Knowledge be attained, the initiate will not be overcome with tears. Thank you, Oh Ancient Falcon, whose spirit still flies the skies of the Over World.
And, as for the contemptible innuendo that these husbands were discomforted, confound or chagrined because of onion breath, well that is simply stuff and nonsense. All of these sisters had grown up knowing the secret of dispelling onion breath. It wasn’t something that they broadcast far and wide, but certainly they didn’t eat all that parsley just to turn their teeth green.
No, the sad truth, in the end, was that all seven husbands were jealous. None of them would ever have admitted that they were stabbed to the heart by envy when they saw the way their wives looked upon an onion, but that, in the end, was the truth.
What happened was not meant to happen. The final outcome was not what they had planned. None of them really wanted to lose their wives, they merely wanted what husbands have wanted from time immortal: They wanted exactly what they wanted, exactly the way they wanted it, exactly when they wanted it. And what they wanted, in this case, was for their wives to give up onions. That was what was behind it all. All seven husbands really believed that their wives would come home repentant, remorseful, regretful and without onion. They expected their wives to be so penitent that none of them would ever think about another onion, touch another onion, or smile that special smile at another onion . . .
They planned it together and all struck at once. The sisters had been at their parents home celebrating their mother’s birthday. (Onions really add a whole new dimension to the concept of a Layer Cake.) At the end of the evening, when each sister arrived at her own front door, she found that front door locked. All of the locks had been changed. Each of them found a note bearing slightly differing wordings of “I’ve had it with you and your onions. Don’t come back.”
The youngest husband, married to Onyekachukwu, the youngest sister, had written “Get out and stay there!” Onyekachukwu, in her orange party dress, squinted at the note. “What a dork,” she muttered, “I already AM out.”
I repeat that the outcome that came out in the end was not at all what the husbands had planned. Despite some of them having been married for many years, these men didn’t know these women at all. Unfortunately, this is a rather common state of affairs, regardless of onions.
It didn’t take long for all seven sisters to rendevous at their parents house once again. Their father had to be forcibly disarmed and they had to feed him quite a lot of homebrew before he feel asleep still muttering dire threats that were quite sincere. Their mother was very calm as she announced quietly, “they’ll be sorry.”
“They will indeed,” sighed Ona, “as soon as they figure out that we’ve taken them at their word and we are not coming back.”
“Well, that too,” said their mother, “but I was speaking specifically about the spiders eternally crawling on their skin, the slimy creatures they will keep finding in their under shorts . . .”
“Mother!” cried Oneida, “no spells! Remember just a little while ago, you promised not to cast any more spells?”
Their mother smiled happily at a spider on the ceiling. “They can buy buckets full of Viagra if they want, it won’t do any good. It will never do any good . . .”
Ona patted her mothers hand. “That’s fine Mom. Have at it.” She addressed her sisters, “Well? Where are we going?”
“Away,” said Oni vaguely.
“Far away,” said Onella definitely.
“ . . . a galaxy far, far away,” said Ondrea.
“Yes!” laughed Onyekachukwu. “I get Han Solo.”
“I’m serious,” said Ondrea, softly.
It was suddenly completely silent around the table which held the crumbling remains of an Onion Layer Cake.
The seven men were, indeed, soon very sorry. Though they never told anyone, even each other, about the spiders, slimy things and buckets of useless Viagra, they did openly repent the way they had treated their wives. In their loneliness, they desperately sought after their wives and begged them, again and again, to come home, but it was all in vain.
Ona’s old VW bus had last been seen taking a sharp right at Orion the Hunter. Before too much longer there was a new cluster of stars blazing in the night sky. From out of that cluster, seven stars burned especially brightly; radiant, round and golden, glittering like glistening onions in the dark night sky.
There is a legend that says you should always look straight at those seven spectacular stars they call the Pleiades. You must look at them openly, frankly and honestly. The legend says that if you look directly at them without blinking, you will see colors: Ona in green, Oneida in turquoise, Oni in yellow, Onella in pink, Onora in purple and laughing, giddy Onyekachukwu eternally in orange.
Did you notice anyone missing? Neither did anyone else.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
This story is for Dilyn
May he always
Be faced
With Only
Fictional
Onions
and for
Micky D.
May he find
Some real one's soon!
©Edwina Peterson Cross
And finally (FINALLY!) a serious poem that happens to have an onion in it. This is a poem I love and it does have onion significance. As my mind reached for those pieces of life ~ average, unexceptional perfection ~ that are really what life IS, the first place it lit was upon the dreaded, glorious pungent bulb. It is my mother's favorite food and, along with water-cress and lemon-lime soda the only thing she could keep down when she was carrying me. Isadora Duncan said her mother could only eat iced oysters and champagne and that was why she was who she was. And I, Dryad Child came the same way, Water Dancing long before movement is "supposed to" be felt . . . Dancing before breath . . . fed greenly on water-cress, lemon-lime soda and onions.
onion, apricot, adagio, a face turned to the light
so the shadows fall like sighs against the
cracked pavement
candles, chocolate, fingers placing spoons against
rose colored napkins in the shade of an oak tree
such things can be
for beauty’s sake alone
water
still through the rainbows of cut crystal
harp strings
fog settling into the bottom of the valley
I try to remember
Each piece that isn’t pain
Each piece whose average, unexceptional perfection
Might spell salvation
Pink satin slippers
A rosewood pen
The thick wool of a well made hat
Blood on my fingers the color of
Rain
©Edwina Peterson Cross
Access: Public
well, if they doesn't satiate his desire for onions nothing will! lol you and Mikey Dee are a wonderful match for each other, wordsmiths extraordinaire, both! mega hugs
Oh….my…..heavens…… Willow is completely utterly speechless. Willow wordsmith is wanting wit whimsicallyuninspired wallowingdumbfounded wimpyflabbergasted, totally in aWe. Kinda like when you accidentally turn a corner, open a door, stumble into a hidden cavern in the hillside??….and there before your very eyes opens out this vast stretchiness of WOW???…. Great cathedrals come to mind! The best most delicious meal in a little hideaway cafe suddenly spied by the river! The first bloom of a magnificent fuschia flower that you didn't even know had been planted in your garden!!
Willow is so going to so shut up. What I just read! The phenomenal ride of getting to tag along hanging onto your coattails for dear life, ripping soaring zooming through imagination likeI'veneverseen. Mannnnnnnnnn. You are soooo ALL THAT.
Deep bows. Curtsy to HRH Dryad. Willow be leaving verrrrry respectfully, backing towards the door.
oH. oH. First, first before I leave, may I? yes???? OK! {{{{{{{{{{{{{HUGS}}}}}}}}}}}}