Meet The Nieratkos - Whoring For Pickles
I have committed many dirty, unspeakable acts over the years for money. I have always justified it with the knowledge that I was providing for my family. But yesterday I did something out of pure greed. I whored myself out for pickles.
Mind you, these are no ordinary pickles, these are Mt. Olive Hot ‘n’ Spicy Kosher Dills (46 fl. Oz) and I love them very dearly. A few years ago they accidentally found their way into my life like a stray dog and we became inseparable. I became a fiend for them, eating upwards of five a day.
Then one day they pulled an Irish Goodbye. All supermarkets in New Jersey gathered together behind closed doors to plot out how to effectively break my heart because they all stopped carrying the Mt. Olive Hot ‘n’ Spicy Kosher Dills (46 fl. Oz) at the same time.
They still carried Mt. Olive pickles, just not MY pickle. So I wrote to the company. It was May of 2008. I told them I planned on boycotting summer if I couldn’t get my pickles.
A lady wrote back offering me coupons.
“Madam, what am I going to do with coupons when I can’t get my Mt. Olive Hot ‘n’ Spicy Kosher Dills (46 fl. Oz)?”
“Try one of our many other delicious Mt. Olive pickles.”
“No. Can I open an account? My brother has a restaurant. I’ll buy in bulk.”
“We do not sell direct to restaurants, perhaps you’d like to order one of our gift baskets from Mtolivepickles.com?”
I went and looked at the gift baskets and wrote her back, “None of the baskets include Mt. Olive Hot ‘n’ Spicy Kosher Dills (46 fl. Oz). Can you make a basket of just those?”
“We cannot alter the baskets.”
“THEN WHY WOULD YOU DIRECT ME TO THE ONLINE STORE???”
“I thought perhaps you’d like to try one of our many other delicious Mt. Olive pickles.”
I gave up. I stopped searching. I stopped caring.
I let that part of me die inside.
Then one day my wife and I were in a Miami grocery store stocking up our hotel room with supplies when a ceiling tile fell from the sky in the condiments aisle just narrowly missing Mrs. Cris Nieratko. A ray of light blasted from above down into the store and onto the shelves of pickles.
I followed it with my eyes.
There they were.
Twelve jars of Mt. Olive Hot ‘n’ Spicy Kosher Dills (46 fl. Oz).
I bought them all.
My wife and I holed up in our hotel room for a week like junkies who’d just robbed the dealer, getting weird with our pickles.
During our stay in Miami, America became afraid of mouth wash and water and passed a NO LIQUID rule when flying. I learned of this rule as I tried to run my remaining nine jars of pickles through the x-ray machine.
“Sir, you can not carry those jars on. You’re going to have to check them in.”
“Why? They’re just pickles.”
“You’re suggesting I’m going to make a pickle bomb?”
“You’re going to have to check them in.”
“They’re all going to break.”
“Then you can either dump the liquid out or eat them all or discard them.”
“Did you seriously just suggest I eat nine jars of fucking pickles right now? Are you an asshole?”
“Sir. If you want to keep them, you’re going to have to check them in. They’ll have a box for you at check-in.”
I went to check in and indeed they had a fucking box… FOR A FUCKING MOUNTAIN BIKE!
I almost considered eating them.
Then I went dumpster diving for boxes. I found a box just right and I checked them in.
As I went through security I saw the asshole who told me to eat my pickles.
“Do you remember me? The pickle guy.”
“Good. Do me a favour, tonight when you go home take a long hard look in the mirror. And know that you are a cocksucker. You could’ve let me on the plane with my pickles. Nothing would’ve happened. Now I risk missing my flight and having all my jars smashed. You, sir, are a piece of shit.”
Sure enough when I landed in Newark all nine jars had broken and everyone’s luggage was covered in pickle juice.
The point of all this is that I love these goddamn pickles. As the name indicates, they are both HOT and SPICY.
A month ago a fellow named Philip asked me if I wanted to be on David Liebe Hart’s public access show.
I didn’t know who that was.
“From Tim and Eric’s show.”
I didn’t know who that was either. I don’t watch TV at all.
“Where are you from, Philip?”
“Belmont, North Carolina.”
“Ever hear of the town of Mt. Olive in North Carolina?”
“Yes, it’s the town they based Mayberry on.”
“Yes, exactly. I’ll do your show if you bring me a jar of Mt. Olive Hot ‘n’ Spicy Kosher Dills (46 fl. Oz).”
So Philip brought David and the film crew to my home for an interview yesterday.
I suppose it’s my own fault for not googling David in advance and learning he’s a borderline retard, and not a good retard like my wife’s retard Uncle Lonnie. David is an annoying talky racist retard who probably has the potential to go postal.
And I don’t suffer racists retards well at all.
Wine and the thought of my pickles were all that got me through the longest three hours of my life.