The Scary Salad Eater #5- August 2025

Lettuce Head
Aug 4
7 min read

The cicadas won't shut up. The air tastes like warm pennies. Something is wrong with the summer.

You can feel it, can’t you? That strange pull beneath the sunburnt smiles and chlorine-stained laughter. The scent of melting plastic, the hiss of sprinklers that sound like whispers. It’s not the heat that’s getting to you - it’s the rot.

This issue of Scary Salad is your invitation to peel back the sticky skin of summer and see what festers beneath.

We begin, as always, with Mistress Obsidian’s August Horrorscope - a warning for those foolish enough to think the stars are friendly. Then it’s time to catch up on Summer of Love: Part 2 -The Summer of Ken. After that, prepare for a revealing interview with Salad Siren Luna Wolf, whose howl might just wake something sleeping in the woods.

Still hungry? Try the short horror Fish, Anyone? - a slow-cooked creepypasta served with lemon and existential dread. And don’t miss the disturbing new preview of whatever Creepy Linguine has been stewing in the back of the fridge.

All that and more awaits inside - artwork, updates, and other delicious nightmares from the Scary Salad crew.

The heat hasn’t broken. The walls are starting to breathe. You’re not going crazy. You’re just eating the magazine.

August Horrorscopes with Mistress Obsidian

♈ Aries – The Spontaneous Combustioneer

You kissed someone under a firework and now your soul reeks of sulfur. You’re sweating gasoline and dreaming in explosions. This month, avoid open flames, heartfelt confessions, and that suspiciously flammable lover with the guitar.

♉ Taurus – The Patchouli Pactkeeper

You signed something at the solstice. You don’t remember what. Now your reflection

blinks out of sync, and the wind calls you “Beloved.” Taurus, whatever you joined… it meets on Thursdays. Don’t be late. Or alone.

♊ Gemini – The Psychedoubler

You’re not tripping. That’s your twin.

The one made from stray thoughts and shared acid flashbacks.

She knows your secrets, steals your dates, and rewrites your memories.

Only one of you is real.

And she’s not the one reading this.

♋ Cancer – The Sweat Lodge Specter

You went to “detox.” But the steam whispered your dead name.

You lost three pounds and a dimension.

Now shadows curl under your fingernails and you cry during commercials for dish soap. Avoid mirrors. And hot yoga.

♌ Leo – The Sun-Kissed Siren

Oh, you’re glowing, all right—radioactively.

You seduced something ancient with your poolside pout.

Now your tan lines spell ancient warnings and your laughter makes birds fall from the sky.

Stay hydrated. Especially with holy water.

♍ Virgo – The Herb Spiral Hexatrix

Your garden has opinions.

It spelled “REPENT” in basil and keeps weeping oregano.

You thought this was your season of harvest, but the cucumbers have teeth now.

Next time, read the seed packet carefully.

♎ Libra – The Harmony Reaper

You tried to “balance” your chakras.

Now they spin backwards and scream.

You’ve got three auras, none of them yours, and your aura reader won’t return your texts.

Reconsider that group sound bath. It wasn’t water.

♏ Scorpio – The Forbidden Flamekeeper

You lit a candle to honor your ancestors.

Now you’re being followed by someone who smells like smoke and betrayal.

You’re not being haunted, Scorpio.

You’re being recruited.

And initiation starts at midnight, wearing nothing but guilt.

♐ Sagittarius – The Lost Frequency Wanderer

**Sagittarious- The Lost Frequency Wanderer**

You followed a music trail into the woods.

The songs got sweeter.

Now they only play when you’re alone.

If you ever hear lyrics in your dreams, don’t sing along.

They’re not your lyrics anymore.

♑ Capricorn – The Festival Finance Fiend

You came for enlightenment and left with six credit cards and a crystal mortgage.

Your aura is being garnished.

Someone’s drawing sigils in your ledger.

Check your birth chart. Jupiter’s in bankruptcy.

♒ Aquarius – The Acid Alchemist

You tried microdosing the truth.

Now it’s macrodosing you.

The air tastes of secrets and your blood sparkles under moonlight.

You’ve invented a new drug… or remembered one.

Either way, the walls think it’s beautiful.

♓ Pisces – The Melted Maiden

The heat has softened your edges.

People can walk through you now. One did.

You fell in love. Or possession.

Hard to tell.

Watch out for men who only speak in haikus. They’re never real.

This month, the stars are high, the tide is wrong, and the truth is vibrating in F minor.

Until the clouds scream and the daisies eat the sun, Mistress Obsidian “Keep your aura dirty and your intentions worse.”

Creepy Linguine’s Cocktail Corner

The Acid Bath Barbie

“She’s pretty. She’s pink. She’s melting.”

Welcome back, sinners. It’s July, it’s sticky, and someone’s playing sitar remixes of the Star-Spangled Banner at your neighbor’s pool orgy. If you’re still sipping hard seltzer and pretending you’re above it all… that’s adorable.

Let’s talk about you. You’re sunburned, overstimulated, and probably emotionally compromised It’s the perfect time to meet your new favorite cocktail.

The Acid Bath Barbie is equal parts beachside nightmare and divine intervention — a glass full of pink static and evil. It goes down like glittered napalm and tastes like your first kiss in a haunted dollhouse.

Ingredients:

● 1 oz silver tequila

● 1 oz Aperol (for that suspicious glow)

● 3/4 oz coconut cream

● 1/2 oz lime juice

● 1/4 oz rose syrup

● Splash of soda water

● Garnish: Mini flamingo stir stick + one plastic eyeball + edible pink shimmer

🧪 Instructions:

Shake tequila, Aperol, coconut cream, lime juice, and rose syrup with ice until your soul begs for release.
Strain into a tall chilled glass over crushed ice.
Add soda water if you want fizz—or don’t. Barbie doesn’t beg.
Top with pink shimmer and that haunted garnish.
Drink through a neon straw while muttering about ex-lovers, crop circles, and the decline of civilization.

Mood Pairing:

Play “Venus in Furs” backwards on cassette while slowly shaving a vintage Ken doll in the mirror. Or just scream into a shell and listen for Barbie’s reply.

Creepy Linguine Says:

“One sip and you’re poolside royalty. Two sips and you’re seeing through time. Three? You’re face down in the shallow end, whispering state secrets to a chlorinated demon named Brad.”

The Summer of Love Part 2: Summer of Ken

Chipper's Freaky Fast Food

Mr. Manicotti’s Survival Guide

This Month’s Topic: “When the Cult Moves in Next Door”

So you’re enjoying your summer, grill’s fired up, kids are in the pool, and suddenly—bam—your new neighbors are chanting around a burning scarecrow in matching robes and offering you 'blessed potato salad.'

Relax. This is why we prep.

Mr. Manicotti’s Steps for Handling a Cul-de-Sac Cult (aka Cult-de-Sac):

Wave Like You’re Friendly.
But never break eye contact. Cults hate that. Makes them think you know something.
Hide the Pets.
Do I know they’re into animal sacrifice? No. Am I risking your labradoodle’s eternal soul? Also no.
Soundproof Your Walls.
Gregorian death chants at 3am are a real mood killer. Use egg cartons, insulation, or scream back louder. Your call.
Don’t Eat the Potato Salad.
I don’t care how creamy it looks. That ain't paprika. That’s ritual seasoning.
Get One Step Weirder.
Put a traffic cone on your mailbox. Greet them in Latin. Show up to their circle and ask for Wi-Fi. Establish dominance.

Bottom Line? You don’t need a flamethrower (unless you already have one, in which case, call me), but a little paranoia and a lotta duct tape go a long way.

Till next time— Mr. Manicotti Still not dead. Yet.

Salad Siren Centerfold: Luna Wolf

SALAD SIREN CENTERFOLD INTERVIEW: LUNA WOLFE

Conducted by Lettuce Head, July 1967 edition

Miss August: Luna Wolfe Occupation: Occult musician, psychedelic assassin, high priestess of The Screaming Chakras Turn-Ons: Blood moons, power chords, men who know when to shut up Turn-Offs: Weak incense, weak wills, weak jawlines

Lettuce Head: “Welcome back, Salad Eaters. Today’s centerfold is a fever dream wrapped in fringe. She’s played bass at midnight rituals, led six communes, and vanished three ex-boyfriends without leaving fingerprints. She’s a siren, a prophet, and a liability. Say hello to Luna Wolfe.”

Luna Wolfe: “Hello, my little lettuce. You smell like fear. I like that.”

Lettuce Head: “Flattered and frightened. Let’s begin. Tell the readers—where were you born?”

Luna Wolfe: “In a canyon carved by screams. Or maybe behind a velvet curtain at a Love-In. My mother danced barefoot through flames. My father bled into a guitar amp. I emerged with a tambourine in my hand.”

Lettuce Head: “Beautiful. Horrible. Exactly our type. So Luna—word is, your last tour ended in tragedy.”

Luna Wolfe: “Mmm. Only for those who asked the wrong questions. I told them not to eat the mushrooms if they feared what they might become. Transformation is messy. Especially when you do it during a bass solo.”

Lettuce Head: “You’ve been called a muse, a monster, and a murderess. Thoughts?”

Luna Wolfe: “Labels are for people who still use calendars. I’m not here to be named. I’m here to burn through the veil. And maybe poison a senator.”

Lettuce Head: “You give new meaning to the phrase ‘Summer of Love.’”

Luna Wolfe: “Love is just death in prettier clothes. I wear it well.”

Lettuce Head: …gulp. “Favorite off-stage activity?”

Luna Wolfe: “Bloodletting. Candle shopping. Teaching my fan club to summon storms using synchronized screaming. And embroidery.”

Lettuce Head: “Delicate yet deadly. Final question: what’s your favorite salad dressing?”

Luna Wolfe: “Fresh-squeezed lemon, wormwood bitters, and the tears of anyone who thought I was ‘just a groupie.’ It bites. But so do I.”

Lettuce Head: “There you have it. Luna Wolfe: part goddess, part grave warning. If you see her in a mirror—run. Unless you're into that.”

Lettuce Head: “Next month’s siren might be easier on the FBI watchlist, but until then—stay wild, stay wary, and never accept a drink from a woman who hums in Latin.”

Featured Story: Fish Anyone?