If I die violently, look in Dave Baker's direction. I betrayed him.

I know, that in the past, I have professed of the simplistic culinary eloquence of the filth burger. Today, I recant my prior testimony.

Today, I profess the Filthy Onion (at least that is what it is called until I can think of a better name for it).

Beautiful in its simplicity -- much like a woman with no outstanding features; alone in her being in this air-brushed world of magazines full of ugly beauty, but gorgeous in the way her nose fits her eyes, captivating in the way her chin compliments her cheeks, sexy in the way she smiles in the rain, and alluring with overarching personality and the deceitful, external guise of unoriginal conformity when in reality she is unlike any . . . that is a Filthy Onion.

I will not give a graphic description of this food lady of the night, just garbage. To do so would be betrayal, at least at this point. At least gossip.

No, there must be demonstrated devotion and a love of trust or trust of love before the most secret desires will be divulged before such a judgmental and public audience.

This is not prom night and she is no prom night slut.

Those who know the depths of the filth burger will know that whatever it is of which I speak cannot be far from the pleasures you have enjoyed Labor Days and fault jams before. Still, there is a touch with has been placed and no amount of calming talk can substitute for that.

OK, what’s the point? Add an onion to a filth. You got me.