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You need to start taking semen more seriously. As in, not wanting to ingest it.

Unless, of course, that’s your thing.

But enough about Nick Fuentes.

An unfortunately common type of story in the news these days involves food delivery drivers defiling orders with everything from spit to semen.

The sentence “My dinner’s made better by cumin” takes on a wildly different meaning depending on the pronunciation.

This is gonna be a slightly different Dave column. Normally I just do opinion stuff, but this week I have a “scoop,” and one I might get in trouble for revealing.

But back to semen. When you’ve written as much as I have about the L.A. public school teacher who’d ejaculate on the cookies he served to students, and the L.A. public school music teacher who’d put his semen in the mouthpiece of the flutes his students played (“Sonata in a Minor”), and when you couple that with a Google search setting that sends you daily—not weekly, but daily—stories of food delivery drivers defiling orders (everything from taking a bite of the burgers to rubbing them on their nutsack), you might grow hesitant about ordering food.

As I have, especially considering that I live in the same county as Professor Cumcookies and Maestro Cumflutist.

But I’m an alcoholic recluse who’s never driven a car in his life. I literally don’t know how to drive. So I’m dependent on food delivery.

And I’m not alone. In 2024, 50 percent of U.S. consumers used food delivery services like GrubHub, DoorDash, Instacart, and Uber Eats daily. 60 percent weekly. That number rises to 67 percent for Gen Z.

That’s a lotta people.

So while I may be a gnarly reclusive Hebraic bridge-troll, my penchant for ordering food online is not unique. More than 200 million of you do the same.

But unlike you, I’m worried about the “special sauce.” I try to choose my orders based on how the restaurant seals the delivery package. This is literally the one and only good thing that came from Covid (other than Phil Spector’s death). Prior to Covid, your delivery driver would pick up the bag of food as you would’ve had you gone through the drive-through yourself. An open bag; eat some fries on the way home! But because of the national exercise in germophobia that washed over us in 2020, a mania that, in cities that were locked down, was coupled with a necessity for food delivery, restaurants began “safeguarding” the delivery items to reassure you that your driver hadn’t put Covid in the calamari.

It’s worth noting that there was never any concern about putting cum in the calamari, even though that was far more likely.

This is a genuine survey: In 2019, 28 percent of food delivery drivers admitted to in some way tampering with the order. In 2022 that number shot up to 79 percent.

I wish I were making that up.

I’d like to say something smarmy like “You people should tip better,” but the Professor Cumcookies of the world aren’t feeding you semen because they’re upset about their pay; they do it because it’s a compulsion. A fetish. A bigger tip would just be seen as a five-star rating for their jizz.

So what’s a reclusive to do?

Well, what I try to do for you folks every week: investigate!

But this investigation was just for me; I never thought it would lead to something of wider concern.

Much to my dismay, the better restaurants in Beverly Hills/West L.A. don’t safeguard the food very well. They assume that the guy driving it is as upstanding as the guy ordering it, which is rather like thinking the bums who piss in the subway are as upstanding as the engineers who built it.

To (God help me) actually praise my home state, in 2021 California mandated that restaurants that accept orders from gig delivery services use tamper-proof packaging.

But what is tamper-proof packaging?

Some restaurants “safeguard” the food by putting it in a plastic bag and tying a knot in the top.

I briefly thought this was a decent idea, until I saw the 2023 video of the Long Beach Uber Eats driver using his teeth to untie the knot just so he could taste each item prior to delivery.

Regarding fast food, McDonald’s insists on putting the food in the same bag as the sodas. The bag has a token “seal” (sticker), but the weight of the drinks inevitably breaks the seal as the bag is clumsily carried from counter-to-car and car-to-door.

Burger King and Wendy’s affix seals of such minimal sticking power, a slight wind could peel ’em off. And voilà, your fish sandwich is tartared.

Funnier still, Burger King and Jack in the Box put a seal over the straw hole on the soda…a soda with a lid that can be lifted right off. Yes, the hole is sealed. Also yes, the entire lid can simply be removed. It makes zero sense.

Del Taco has the best setup of all: a sticker-sealed bag inside another sticker-sealed bag. That’s two layers, four stickers (two per bag), that jackoff-all-trades would have to breach to sour-cream my chalupa.

Plus, the soda lid’s wrapped with a seal. Secure the hole, but also secure the rim (the motto of every debutante).

Still, Del Taco food is fucking terrible! But what choice have I got? To avoid gulping down semen, I gulp down trash.

You call this a life?

Okay, so why not order from grocery stores and cook your own? Well, I do, from my local Vons (a SoCal chain owned by Albertsons). And you know what happens? The employees use the online orders to unload the expired and damaged items. I’ve received frozen meals that were moldy and thawed (likely from refrigeration failures), and I’ve gotten items that are more than TWO YEARS expired. Thanksgiving a year ago I got a can of turkey gravy that was 30 months past the expiration date. And Vons wouldn’t give me a refund.

I probably shouldn’t have eaten that gravy, but I did have the most beautiful dream while in my botulism coma: me and Justine Bateman in her prime sitting on a porch as Chris Spedding serenades us with his solo from “Man With a Gun” while my boot stamps on Ron Unz forever as I tell Orwell, “Your prediction was correct except for the part about the face being human.”

It was the best comatose Thanksgiving ever.

Honestly, I don’t blame the Vons employees; I’m sure they’re just moving stock to keep their jobs. But even the coyote in my backyard turned up his snout at some of the crap I’ve received.

Which brings us to Amazon and its grocery delivery service “Fresh,” a name of such ballsy irony, it almost makes me want to forgive Bezos for banning my book.

Except it turns out Bezos is literally poisoning people.

The “Fresh” delivery warehouse is about two hours outside L.A. Initially, perishables were delivered with an ice pack in the bag, because raw fish kept at room temperature in a hot car for two to three hours on the freeway in an L.A. summer shouldn’t be consumed. But about five years ago Amazon decided “fuck the ice packs.” Perishables were now delivered at room temp after hours on the road…raw beef, raw fish, raw chicken, thawed in a hot trunk.

After a dozen deliveries of inedible meat, and as many email exchanges with “Fresh” admins who told me that Amazon no longer wants to spend money on ice (yes, a trillion-dollar company claims it’s too impoverished to freeze water), I did something I’ve never done before: I narced (alternate spelling “narc’d”; I don’t need you guys arguing with me about that on Substack). I called the California Department of Health. CA has laws regarding the transportation of perishables that have the possibility of becoming a serious health hazard if left at room temperature (raw meat, fish, chicken, eggs).

Next thing I knew, a Department of Health official showed up at my door. True story. Before he entered my house, he showed me his badge.

The last time any law enforcement agent knocked on my door flashing a badge was in 1997 when I was named as a person of interest in the Black Dahlia murder (I was officially cleared after someone who had not gone to L.A. public schools did the math on the murder date).

So here’s this Health Dept. guy in my home and we go over all the files I have in my computer regarding “Fresh,” from the email exchanges to the audio files I had of conversations with Amazon cogs in which they smugly told me they don’t need to follow the law because they’re AMAZON!

For weeks, the Health Dept. guy and I continued to exchange info. And then Covid happened, and most CA Health Dept. money was redirected toward frightening small children.

And to be honest, I forgot about the meat matter myself. After Amazon banned me as an author, I canceled everything Amazon-related. But this year I thought, for a laugh, I’d follow-up with the Dept. of Health official, because why not?

Now, don’t let my tough-guy columnist routine (“Beaner! Daquan! Kike! Akbar! Ching-Chong! Red State Cletus gyook gyook gyook!”) fool you. In person, I’m incredibly conflict-averse, because in my declining years I enjoy peace. I need peace. My severe hypertension is one toe-stub away from turning me into Kirk Douglas (poststroke Douglas, not Natalie Wood-raping Douglas).

So when a guy with a badge tells me that something is off the record, when he asks me not to report what he’s found, I’d normally respect that. But you know what? I don’t care anymore. I despise Amazon, and besides, what can anyone take from me? (Oh, right…my house. Shit.) So Badgy McGee tells me, off the record, that Amazon initially promised to correct course regarding ice packs, but the problem persists to the extent that Amazon is sending out “completely thawed” meat that went bad regardless of the ice packs. And this is happening now.

It’s difficult for me to sit on that info.

Badgy concluded by admitting that the regulatory ball is being passed from various state, county, and city agencies, with red tape (and, though he didn’t say it, I’m assuming Bezos’ billions in lobbying dough) holding up any attempts to force Amazon to stop sending out dangerous food.

So yeah, Amazon is sending out potentially deadly food. And if Amazon’s doing it in California, a state drowning in regulatory excess, they’re certainly doing it in RAYD STAYTS where regulation’s fer faggots. So when your Uncle Fudd’s anus explodes with bloody diarrhea at Christmas dinner, let him know that Jeff Bezos is to blame.

Anyway, none of this solves my problem of what to eat tonight that won’t turn me into Rod Stewart.

Dave’s Imaginary Readers: “Maybe you just should’ve learned to drive, retard.”

Dammit, I’m hearing voices. Why did I use the Vons botulism gravy again last week?

That’s two years running.

Will I ever learn?