I think I may have poisoned myself. My guts are wrecked, and it’s not safe for me to be more than a short run to the bathroom (and if you’ve ever seen me run, you know how short a distance that is). My poor wife, the lovely and talented Jess, is suffering as well. She’s not poisoned, just suffering from being in proximity to me. Jess is normally very sympathetic and caring about the state of my health (much more so than I am), but after being subjected to the miasma of fetid air that’s been following me for the last 3 or 4 days, vented not only from the usual suspects, but seemingly from my very pores as well, she doesn’t seem much inclined to feel one bit sorry for me, or even concerned really, which seems a bit unfair, considering that it’s really all her fault. For Christmas, she got me a box of Grippo’s. She wrapped it up and put it under the tree. On Christmas Eve, we went to church, and when we got home, Harry (her dog) had dug it out, gnawed through the wrapping paper and the box, and eaten virtually the entire contents. It was a very disappointing Christmas for me. I blame Jess because, if she had shown the proper regard for Harry’s voracity, I would have had to share the box with holiday company. At any rate, I found myself obsessing about the lost Grippo’s ever since, and since I had to drive right by Marsh grocery store (the only place in town that carries Grippo’s, for some inexplicable reason) to pick up my granddaughter, I caved in and picked up a box.

The fact that they are the only chips I’ve ever seen that are sold in a box says something about Grippo’s BBQ potato chips. Of course, they are available in the traditional bag, but those are only for the weak at heart, the dabblers in exhilarating flavor. For the true aficionado, there is no substitute for the box. When I was in the Air Force, I was frequently deployed to Kuwait, Turkey, and sundry other uncivilized places. My mother got in the habit of sending me a box of Grippo’s as a care package. I made the mistake early on of inviting some of my friends to try them, as none of them had ever heard of these delightful deep-fried and seasoned-to-perfection crunchy slices of heaven. Their first hesitant bites quickly turned into a piranha-like feeding frenzy, and, in a matter of minutes, left me once again, Grippo-less. After that, I learned to have Mom send me two boxes, one to share and one to hoard.

The superiority of the boxed Grippo’s as opposed to the bagged, is two-fold. For the most part, it is merely a matter of quantity. The boxed chips do seem to have somewhat more seasoning on them, but not significantly. It is the sheer increase in quantity that attracts the novice to the box. The true Grippo’s freak is drawn to the box for an entirely different reason. At the bottom of every box lies, like buried treasure, the true appeal of the box. It is the fine mixture of crushed chips and raw Grippo’s seasoning powder that has settled to the bottom, like gold at the bottom of a river. It is delicious and highly addictive. I call it the Grippo Crack. There are few gustatory joys equal to that of dipping a wet finger into that delicious, delectable sandy-red powder, and then licking that finger clean (Your own, of course, using someone else’s would just be gross).

Therein lies the peril of the Grippo’s overdose from which I’m currently suffering. Although I actually eat less at a single sitting than I used to (this box took me 4 days to eat. It used to only take 2.), now that I’ve gotten older and apparently frailer (digestively anyway), I apparently just can’t handle them. The chips themselves did sufficient damage, but on day 4, I got stuck into the Grippo Crack. It is impossible to summon the willpower necessary to stop at a mere 2-3 finger dips. It would be like trying to eat 1/2 of a fun-size (and by the way, who came up with that stupid name? A true fun-size candy bar would weigh at least a pound.) Hershey bar. It can’t be done, or at least can’t be done without an overwhelming sense of your own inadequacy and despair. No, once you’re on the Grippo Crack, you’re on it ’til the sweet, tangy end. It’s an immoral imperative. The only real downside, other than the physical effects of eating 1/2 a pound of crushed chips and seasoning, is that it doesn’t last. Sooner or later, you run out, and, as soon as your guts recover, start planning to get your next fix.

I blame Jess for my current state of ill health because, if she had shown the proper regard for Harry’s voracity, I would have had to share the box with holiday company. Since she was so careless, I had this one all to myself. Sometimes I think she’s trying to kill me.

Fortunately, we’re leaving soon to visit my brother in Florida. It would just be rude not to take him a couple of boxes, since he can’t get them down there. You know how I hates to be rude. Jess is gonna kill me.

By the way, if you haven’t experienced the ambrosiac flavor and majestic burn of the Grippo’s BBQ potato chip, you owe it to yourself to try them. You can thank me later. Check them out at www.grippos.com.