Acts of the Hummus Idol, November Edition

For once, I can say this smile on my face is genuine, and not simply something to lure you into my nutritious yet blasphemous and wicked embrace. Aphrodite, the goddess of love and sweaty naked passion, dropped by (or Venus, if you don’t have any compunctions about how the Romans went about stealing other people’s gods and arrogantly renaming them). Man, she is one luscious piece of work. Swirled her finger around in a little puddle of olive oil just to the right of my nose for an hour or so, and…mmmmm, did that feel good. And that was just the foreplay.

You know, though, I gave as good as I got. Believe me, I have some moves despite my lack of various anatomical parts, at least when I’m dealing with spiritual entities. We’ve got a date next Friday; I’m not saying she’s the one…I’m a player through and through…but she’ll hold me over for a while.

Certainly better than when I dated Ishtar for a few months back in 1607. Being a goddess of love and war, that Babylonian bitch was a hot mess emotionally. Nothing ruins a sexual afterglow like someone suddenly flinging off the sheets, screaming bloody murder and then trying to clobber you with a huge goddamned warclub. (Oh, shut the hell up, Deacon! Yes, I’m going to answer the e-mail. Prick!)

I, the great and powerful Hummus Idol, will now entertain your questions and grant unto you the wisdom that only a pile of very angry crushed chickpeas, tahini, olive oil and other seasonings can offer. Don’t let the smiling face fool you. I am a fridge-cold killah. Bow down before me, speak your question, and incline your ears or any other convenient part of your anatomy as I spew my advice upon thee.

Q: My father-in-law is coming over for Thanksgiving this year, despite me making repeated pleas, bribes and threats to my wife for her to prevent this. If past holidays are any indication, we will be rooting for opposite teams in every single football game and he will be criticizing my manhood at every juncture. We disagree on politics, religion, the environment, movies, TV, radio, child rearing, beer and, well, pretty much everything else. We once almost came to blows over the “proper” way to knot a necktie. What should I do? – Alex O. Contraire, Memphis, Tennessee

A: As I see it, you have the following options:

  • Spend most of Thanksgiving Day in a bar, then when you’re good and drunk and there’s no way you can avoid going home anymore, chew a few sprigs of parsley, swig a little Listerine, have five breath mints, and then insult the biggest, baddest person in the place. When you get regain consciousness, stuff all your cash and credit cards into your socks and tell your family that you were mugged. Try to get hit in the mouth, as the blood will probably help cover up any scent of alcohol the parsley, Listerine and mints couldn’t handle.
  • Just as he’s arriving in town, make sure that you have arrived at his home. Break in, cook yourself a nice Cornish game hen since you’ll be missing out on the turkey at your place, then leave a filthy mess for your father-in-law to clean up in the kitchen and dining room when he gets back. Go home and act smug, while ignoring all questions about where the hell you’ve been all day.
  • Resort to cannibalism this year and cook him up in place of the turkey. Problem solved forever. But this might cause some distress for your wife and children, so be prepared for some stern lecturing.
  • Or, how about this? Grow some balls and deal with it. He’ll be gone soon enough. Shit, he let your pathetic sorry ass marry his daughter without pumping a couple shotgun shells into your chest. What more do you want from him?

Q: How the hell did I lose that election? – A Very Disappointed 2008 Presidential Candidate

A: Well, John, as one ornery old guy to another (and I’ve been ornery and old thousands of years longer than you have), let me tell you something: Grouchy, distracted, petulant and having poor judgment aren’t good things to project during a campaign. You might be able to get away with ornery when all the cards are in your favor, but they weren’t. And my former minion Sarah, whose soul I still own thank your very much, didn’t help you much either once she started doing her own thing. In fact, given that you actually lost (and the fact you conceded so pleasantly) tells me that I was probably wrong about you having sold your soul to Satan and/or Cthulu. Those two guys know how to get things done.

Q: You didn’t have anything to do with me winning, did you? I’ve been getting precious little sleep the past two years and I’m always on the run from one event to another. Just want to make sure I didn’t accidentally sign my soul away to you one night while sleepwalking or something. – The O-Man, Chicago, Illinois

A: Sadly, no. You and your campaign staff and the American people did that all on your own, damn it. I can appreciate the skill and talent you showed, but you also coasted on the message of “hope” and that would make my stomach turn if I had one. Last thing I want is for people to have hope when I’m trying to conquer this plane of existence, or at least this sad little rock you call Earth. However, if you’d like to get the nation out of the economic doldrums fast, I can swing that for you. Just say the word. Gonna cost more than just your soul, though. I’ll need Michelle and the girls to sign up too. You know where to find me.

Q: Last night, I heard some weird noises from my parents’ room and the door was a little ajar and I saw them having sex. I’m really freaked out. They’re like…old and shit. What should I do? – Chris Rebus-Conundrum, Minneapolis, Minn.

A: First option would be to tell them you’re depressed about the state of the world and are feeling suicidal, so that you maximize the chances of them paying for therapy. Then tell the shrink what’s really messing with your head and continue to visit him/her until you work through your trauma. Second option would be to grow a pair of balls (regardless of your gender) and just get over it before you end up like that Alex guy in the first dumbass question I had to answer today.

Q: How can I score a hot goddess like you did? – Walter Freehand, Batshit, Texas

A: The road is long, the pain is intense, and the costs are high. But I have a special this week…for three monthly payments of $19.95, you can buy my video and workbook series: How to Score Like Hummus. Just call 800-555-4321. Operators are standing by, and all of them are in Indian call centers, which means a better than average chance they will speak clear English.

(Image by Stewart Butterfield, who is not affiliated with this blog and who doesn’t even know I or my opinions exist, and used under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 License)

(Hummus Idol does not speak as a representative or agent of Deacon Blue or anyone else associated with this blog. In fact, Hummus Idol doesn’t exist. He is wholly and completely a manufactured character that acts as an angry facade behind which Deacon Blue can hide for petty entertainment purposes and for times when he needs to be extra crusty and get shit off his chest. That said, you can feel free to shower the Hummus Idol with offerings of jewelry, money or fine art…he will make sure it goes someplace where it is needed.) View complete list of Humus Idol entries here.

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