The Scary Salad Eater #4- July 2025

Lettuce Head
Jul 1
14 min read

Updated: Aug 4

Can you feel that? A sting on the back of your neck. Is it a mosquito, piercing your flesh for a quick meal? Is it the singe of an unrelenting sun, searing you into a leathery rind? No. It's the madness of the summer air, drilling into your skin like a dozen botflies laying their eggs. Don't resist. Let it in. The heat will take you on a journey through scorching nightmares and twisting psyches. But you must persist. You've made it this far and you must see it through.

The journey begins with Mistress Obsidian's whispers of doom in the July Horrorscope. Then Creepy Linguine offers a brief respite with The Jefferson Trip, a drink sure to put the "buzz" back in "OH GOD THIS BUZZING IS LIQUEFYING MY BRAIN MAKE IT STOP!" Next, take some advice on surviving the summer with Mr. Manicotti's Summer of Love Survival guide, followed by an interview with our featured Siren Cherry Bomb. The real festival begins with our featured story, Midnight Mayhem. Finally, cool off at the Scary Salad pool party and enjoy some original artwork by one of our fans.

Now without further ado, let the Summer of Love begin.

July Horrorscopes with Mistress Obsidian

“Peace, love, and unspeakable dread.”

It is 1967 again... The stars are dazed. The planets are tuned to a frequency only moths and mediums can hear. Patchouli clogs the air, and someone’s chanting your birth chart backwards.

Mistress Obsidian has spilled candle wax onto a velvet birth map and stirred crushed flower petals into an ashtray full of teeth. The signs have spoken.

Close your eyes.

Breathe in.

Breathe deeper.

Yes, that’s smoke. Yes, it’s moving.

Now… let us divine what this summer will do to you

♈ Aries – The Mind-Melt Marauder

You burned the sage. You led the chant.

But, flamechild, you left your third eye unguarded. Something crawled in wearing a smile.

Now your thoughts are echoed in stranger voices.

The rhythm inside your chest no longer belongs to you.

And when the drum circle begins again… you’ll be the first to bleed in tempo.

♉ Taurus – The Blissed-Out Bloom

You laid in sunlight, arms open, letting the world crawl across your skin.

But not every seed is yours.

Now, vines coil under your floorboards. You water them in your sleep.

You speak to them in dreams.

And when they bloom?

They will wear your perfume—and ask to be called Mother.

♊ Gemini – The Echo-Twin Trip

Double-dosed. Double-faced. You’ve fractured into something mirrored but wrong. One of you is still dancing at the festival.

The other is gagged beneath the floorboards of consciousness.

And the version they see in the daylight?

She remembers things you never lived… and she’s collecting alibis.

♋ Cancer – The Incense Apparition

You tried to cleanse the house, but sugar, some spirits refuse to be evicted.

They braided themselves into your pillows and steeped their voices in your bathwater.

Now something is rocking in your chair when you’re not looking.

It hums lullabies that end in your name.

And last night?

It borrowed your body. Just for a little while.

♌ Leo – The Groove Golem

Adored, adorned, and slightly too divine.

The spotlight loves you, Leo. But something in the shadow loves you more.

Now your reflection winks first.

Your sunglasses scream.

And they no longer chant your name in worship… They chant something older.

And your hips move to it on their own.

♍ Virgo – The Cult of Clean

You wanted clarity. Order. Purpose.

You found a commune. You alphabetized their sins.

And now they’ve made you High Priestess of the Ritual Scrub.

The grout patterns whisper. The teacups align themselves.

Perfection has a price.

And soon, Virgo, you’ll be asked to pay it in skin.

♎ Libra – The Lovebomb Lich

You fell in love at first chant.

You signed away your name in moonlight.

Now you share breath with seventeen other souls and one deity with far too many eyes.

Balance is gone.

Harmony has curdled.

And in the stillness of meditation… Something inside you giggles.

♏ Scorpio – The Serotonin Summoner

You wanted to meet your shadow.

She met you first.

She walks like you. Talks like you.

Only better. Louder. Hungrier.

She smiles with your teeth—and hers. And when you wake up, Scorpio, The knives will already be warm.

♐ Sagittarius – The Free Love Feral

You kissed someone who spoke in riddles.

You rode a hitchhiker with glass eyes.

You haven't slept since Arizona.

But something followed you home from that New Mexico bonfire. Something with feathers that remember your real name.

It circles you at night, cooing lullabies in tongues your ancestors tried to forget. And darling… it’s patient.

♑ Capricorn – The Manifestation Miasma

You manifested success. Security. A future.

But the universe misheard.

Your vision board is pulsing.

Your planner wrote back.

And your houseplants rearranged into a warning.

You will get what you asked for, Capricorn.

But you didn’t read the contract. And you signed it in dream-ink.

♒ Aquarius – The Crystal-Fanged Oracle

You started a cult as a joke.

But the stars weren’t laughing.

Your followers wear your face now—slightly wrong. They chant the dream you muttered once, in sleep.

And the altar is growing teeth.

Aquarius, darling… you’re no longer the prophet. You’re the offering.

♓ Pisces – The Dandelion Delirium

You floated too high, love.

And something caught your scent.

Your daydreams are leaking.

Your diary flutters when no wind blows.

And last week’s meadow rendezvous?

It’s still blooming… in your shape. And it’s singing in your voice.

🌸 This summer, love is free. But freedom opens doors. And something always waits on the other side.

Close your eyes, Scary Salad Eaters. But do not turn your back.

Until the leaves rot and rise again,

🖤 Mistress Obsidian

“And remember: never trust a man with a flute and no shoes.”

Creepy Linguine’s Cocktail Corner: The Jefferson Trip

The Devil’s Eldest Daughter does Independence Day… with mind-bending consequences.

Welcome back, sugarbuns. If you're here, that means you're already three ribs deep into summer, and your neighbors just tried to baptize their baby in spiked kombucha. Sounds like it’s time for a little something to even out your frequencies.

Now, I know y’all were expectin’ red, white, and blue Jell-O shots and a lukewarm beer in a koozie that says “I Plead the Fifth”—but you came to the wrong picnic, darling. This ain’t your mama’s backyard bash. This is The Jefferson Trip—a kaleidoscopic libation for rebels, weirdos, and time travelers trapped in meat suits.

This one’s strong enough to rewrite history… or at least your last three text messages.

Ingredients:

● 1 oz absinthe

● 1 oz cherry liqueur

● 1 oz blue curaçao (liberty in a bottle, baby)

● 1/2 oz fresh lemon juice

● 1/2 oz honey syrup

● 2 dashes black pepper tincture

● Garnish: a red maraschino cherry impaled on a cocktail saber + edible glitter rim (optional, but mandatory)

Instructions:

Rim a chilled coupe glass with edible glitter and powdered sugar, because freedom should sparkle and rot your teeth.
In a shaker filled with ice, combine absinthe, cherry liqueur, curaçao, lemon juice, honey syrup, and pepper tincture.
Shake like you're about to declare something unconstitutional.
Strain into the coupe and garnish with that cherry saber—let ‘em know you mean it.
Sip slow, stare into a firework, and tell everyone at the party that Thomas Jefferson was probably a lizard.

💋 Optional Touch:

Add a single drop of red food dye and swirl with a bar spoon—watch it bloom like the shot heard 'round the world.

🪩 Serving Suggestion:

Best enjoyed under a blacklight, with the Declaration of Independence playing backwards on vinyl while a man in a powdered wig stares into the void.

One drink and you’ll feel revolutionary. Two drinks and you’ll start drafting your own amendments. Three? Well… let’s just say history’s about to repeat itself.

💋 Cheers, sinners. Stay weird. Stay free. —Creepy Linguine

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🌞🔥 MR. MANICOTTI’S SUMMER OF LOVE SURVIVAL GUIDE 🔥🌞

“Hell ain’t hot enough for what’s goin’ on out here, baby.”

Well, well, well… look at you. Bright-eyed, braless, and smellin’ like sandalwood and sin. You got patchouli in your pockets and hope in your heart. Which means it’s only a matter of time before somethin’ cosmic crawls outta the dirt and starts callin’ you “Roomie.”

I’m Mr. Manicotti—Creepy Linguine’s little brother and the South’s most underappreciated prophet. I’ve been to six communes, four time loops, and one awkward brunch with Charles Manson’s aura, and I’m here to tell you this summer? It ain’t all daisies and free love, sugar. It’s a trap wrapped in a tie-dye t-shirt.

Let ol’ Manicotti help you stay alive long enough to regret your decisions properly.

🚫 Rule #1: If the Drum Circle Starts Spinnin’ Backwards… RUN

That ain’t rhythm. That’s a summoning.

If it sounds like Fleetwood Mac but nobody brought instruments? You’re at a ritual. And your aura is on the menu.

🧺 Rule #2: Don't Trust Anyone Offering “Astral Snickerdoodles”

I don’t care if their name is Moonbeam. If the cookie hums, don't eat it. That ain't cinnamon.

That's star rot.

Last time I took one, I saw God and he looked exactly like Nixon.

🧘 Rule #3: If You Leave Your Body During Group Meditation, Don’t Talk to the Thing Wearing Your Face

That ain’t you. It ain’t even “past life” you. That’s a borrower.

You give it too long, and when you float back in?

Your hands’ll feel wrong. Your voice’ll echo. And your mama’s rosary will melt.

🐍 Rule #4: No Shirt, No Shoes, No Prophecy

If a shirtless man in bell bottoms approaches you with a snake named “Destiny” and says you’re “glowing with chosen frequency”?

Turn around.

That’s not a compliment. That’s how cults start.

Snake handler Steve and his spirit snake Destiny

📻 Rule #5: Don’t Accept Any Radios That “Only Play One Station”

Especially if that station doesn’t have a DJ and keeps sayin’ your middle name. That’s a siren loop, baby.

You’ll think it’s tunes. It’s actually coordinates.

For what?

Ask the black-eyed man waitin’ by the van with no tires.

🌀 Rule #6: No One at the Festival Knows What Year It Is

If you ask the vendors and they say “the now,” you’re not at Bonnaroo, sweetheart.

You’re caught in a hippie echo chamber built by time witches and sponsored by Big Incense. The longer you stay, the more you smell like eucalyptus and forget algebra.

☀ Rule #7: If the Sun Smiles at You, Don’t Smile Back

That ain’t the sun.

That’s somethin’ lookin’ through it.

It’s old. It’s bored. And it loves when people make eye contact.

💬 Final Tip: Don’t Believe Everything You Hear, Especially If You Heard It From a Shirt

Those “The End Is Nigh (and Groovy!)” crop tops?

Yeah. I designed those. In Hell’s marketing department.

They glow under blacklight and summon something very enthusiastic.

So if you feel yourself slippin’, darlin’?

If the ground gets squishy and the clouds whisper your star sign? Just close your eyes, click your heels, and whisper:

“Mr. Manicotti warned me. I just thought he was high.”

And I was, sugar. I was.

But that don’t mean I was wrong.

💥 Stay hydrated. Don’t trust the moon. And if anyone says “you’re glowing,” ask what color.

— Yours in sin, shade, and southern discomfort,

Mr. Manicotti

CEO of Misinformation and Unholy Vibes

Siren Centerfold: Cherry Bomb

Conducted by Lettuce Head,

💋 Miss July: Cherry Bomb

Occupation: Go-Go Dancer, Witch, Wanted Across 6 States

Turn-Ons: Fire, French Cinema, Emotional Unavailability

Turn-Offs: Posers, polyester blends, exorcists named Rick

Lettuce Head: “Salad lovers, welcome back to the most morally compromising page in publishing—your monthly appointment with beauty, chaos, and questionable arson charges. I’m your host, Lettuce Head, freshly wilted and deeply impressed, because across from me sits this month’s centerfold: the dynamite dollface of doom herself—Cherry Bomb. Cherry, welcome to the magazine. You look like a firecracker!”

Cherry Bomb: “Aw, you sweet thing. I do try. Gotta keep the boys guessing and the crime scenes photogenic, you know?”

Lettuce Head: “Be still, my leafy heart. So, tell our readers—where did a girl like you come from? And is it on fire now?”

Cherry Bomb: “Most likely, yes. I was born in a Volkswagen bus parked at a desert love-in. Daddy was a poet-slash-pyromaniac. Mama was a backup dancer for a Bo Diddley cover band. I did my first exorcism during a dodgeball game. I’ve had... a colorful life.”

Lettuce Head: “Colorful is right—like a lava lamp full of blood. Now you’ve got quite the reputation: half psychedelic priestess, half cherry-scented war crime. How’d you land the centerfold spot?”

Cherry Bomb: “Well, sugar, they say sex sells, but so does a woman who can hotwire a hearse, dismantle a man’s ego with a glance, and still make a mean ambrosia salad. I gave ‘em fireworks and a funeral. Sealed the deal with a wink and a Molotov cocktail.”

Lettuce Head: “Remind me to never cross you—unless it’s arms, at sunset, while the world ends softly behind us.”

Cherry Bomb: “Oh, Lettuce. That’s almost romantic. Do you always flirt with women who’ve poisoned a mayor?”

Lettuce Head: “Only the pretty ones. And only after the trial.”

Cherry Bomb: “Smart man. I never get convicted. Too charming.”

Lettuce Head: “That you are. So tell me: what’s your signature move when you’re not seducing cult leaders or haunting roadside diners?”

Cherry Bomb: “Hmm… I like to dance barefoot on cursed vinyl, stir trouble at town halls, and read old love letters backwards to summon forbidden memories. Also, I make a killer sangria. With real killer. Very exclusive.”

Lettuce Head: “Spicy! Okay, final round—our readers need to know: what’s your favorite salad dressing?”

Cherry Bomb: “Oh honey, I’m a vinaigrette girl. Equal parts acid, sweetness, and the lingering taste of regret. It burns a little… but you’ll go back for more.”

Lettuce Head: “Cherry, I swear—if I weren’t made of romaine and poor decisions, I’d ask you to run away with me.”

Cherry Bomb: “Mmm. Tempting. But I don’t run, sugar. I glide. And I explode.”

Lettuce Head: “God help us. There you have it, folks—Cherry Bomb, our Summer of Love siren with a spark in her step and a body count in her scrapbook. Next month, we’ll be scraping glitter off the walls and praying she doesn’t call us back. Until then, keep your forks sharp and your hearts flammable.”

Featured Story: Moonlight Mayhem

Listen to the full story on youtube or read on our site!

Moonlight Mayhem ‘67

Sargent White saw the creature again at sunrise.

He was lying in the back of a van painted with nude cherubs and words no one remembered writing, surrounded by unconscious bodies and incense smoke. Someone’s tambourine was bleeding. Again.

It always came at dawn. Just when the acid was slipping and the music got too quiet to cover the screaming.

They called him Sarge, even though he hadn’t worn a uniform in two years. The war still clung to his sweat like jungle rot. He sold tabs now—“truth wafers,” he called them, as if the right trip might rewrite what he saw in ’Nam.

But some truths never leave. Some truths… hatch.

Vietnam, 1968. Cu Chi province. Just outside the tunnels.

White’s boots sank into mud that smelled of blood and iron. He hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours. None of them had. Davis was trying to dry out his socks over a fire made from ammo crates. Jackson had carved spirals into his helmet with a pocketknife.

“You hear about the new stuff?” Davis asked, licking his fingers. “MK Ultra Violet. Comes on purple tabs. Supposed to boost focus. Unofficial issue.”

White lit a cigarette and said nothing. But he’d heard. Whispers, mostly. About trips that didn’t end. About things crawling through...you could see ‘em if you were high enough. Sounded like a load of bullshit, but there was no harm in trying.

They dropped them that night. The whole squad. Thought it’d be a laugh. See some colors. Feel invincible.

Jackson started talking backwards.

Davis laughed so hard he broke two ribs. His eyes bled dry. They buried him in the rain, sliding through the mud, and everyone else was laughing, too.

And White… White saw it.

First through night vision. Red-tinted jungle. The static hum. The shape. Like meat stretched wrong. A mouth too wide. No real eyes, just voids that seemed to pulse with sound.

It didn’t walk, per say, but rather seemed to slither on two feet. Every time White blinked, it moved closer, but it never got any closer, not actually.

It whispered in pulses. Like radio fuzz. A breath behind his thoughts, huffing on his neurons.

The jungle wasn’t right again. Even when they made it out. Even when the debriefing officer told White it was all a bad trip. He was sent home with a Bronze Star and a prescription for lithium.

California, 1967.

Two years later, he was back on American soil, guiding other people through the mind maze. Sarge’s "truth wafers" were popular—stronger than Owsley’s, they said. Made you see things.

He didn’t tell them what he saw before.

He ran a redwood grove ritual outside Big Sur. Candles, soft sitar music, that hot hippie chick Starfish spinning barefoot in a dress made of scarves. He felt peaceful for a moment.

Then someone—barely more than a kid—began to mumble something.

"It wears a song now... It wears a song..."

Jackson had said the same, before his tongue split: White froze. The fire dimmed, though no wind stirred.

He stood up and walked into the trees, vomiting bile behind a Coastal Redwood and splattering the bark in bright yellow goo.

A sprawling outdoor festival outside San Francisco. Half the crowd hadn’t slept in days; the other half thought time was a lie.

Starfish had begged him to come.

He knew it was hunting. The creature fed on resonance—ecstatic states, the blissful surrender of self. It used joy like a scalpel. The more open the mind, the easier the infection.

At dusk, he saw it.

A child laughing too hard, tears running down her cheeks, pupils huge and wrong. A man collapsed mid-dance, smiling with his jaw dislocated. People dissolving into patterns.

Starfish twirled under the stage lights, spinning faster and faster until the edges of her body blurred. Then she was gone. Just gone.

He screamed into the crowd:

“IF YOU CAN SEE IT, RUN!”

No one did, they were too busy laughing.

White had one wafer left. Special batch. His own serum. Designed for contact.

He staggered to the center of the crowd, dosed himself, and lay back on the grass.

It came immediately. Slithering through sound waves. Crawling across the music.

He met it inside his mind: a space of shattered mirrors and jungle heat. He let it whisper. Let it show him the joy. Then—

He slammed the door.

He turned his thoughts recursive. A mental Möbius strip made of fire.

"I was the door," he whispered into his brain; where he knew it could hear him, for sure. "But I can be the lock, too."

And then—

Light. Or maybe just silence.

Moonlight Mayhem, 1968.

Selene hadn’t made it to the festival last year, but she hums a song she doesn’t remember learning.

In the distance, someone strums a guitar.

“That’s it,” Rob tells her. “The one they played last year…I had to leave early, though, didn’t get to hear the whole set.”

People are starting to gather.

The smiles come slowly.

Wide, calm, stretched across from ear to ear.

Somewhere, a key plays, low and static.

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Gallery: The Pool Party

Pool party images