Struck down by a stomach ache, I retire to bed and the milky embrace of Pepto Bismol, that pink elixir of all gastrically troubled souls. And once ensconced in my soon-to-be fart-filled bower, I groaningly enquire of my poor stomach what its problem is, and the much-abused organ answers with the face and voice of Walter Matthau: "Salad bar."
Of course, I should have known better than to eat from a salad bar in February, month of sneezes and yellow phlegminess. But I was weary and in a hurry. Who knows what vile bile had been expectorated into the vat of ranch dressing by some previous wielder of the ladle, unable or simply unwilling to control the symptoms of their digestive disease? God knows it's hard enough to know what's in ranch dressing to begin with, never mind guess what's been spat into its murky depths.
Suffice it to say, I shall not be dining at that establishment again, not unless whatever I buy is sold triple-wrapped in cellophane from Howard Hughes' kitchen.