I had a great conversation last night with a few neighbors. (What a great hook for a blessay! That’s a blog essay, not to be confused with a bletaphor, blumor, or blotographs, which will come later. But wait, there’s more!) And so now I’m going to tell you about this conversation whether you like it or not. (Always a good idea to berate your audience in the first paragraph.) But I regress to some seriousness.
We spoke about how important it is, imperative really, to eat well, especially in the morning. Not how a poor diet effects weight gain or loss, or about cholesterol, or anything else in the canon of dietary morals that we’ve all heard so many times and don’t hear anymore. I’m gonna shove that bolus of saturated fat called a breakfast burrito into my face despite knowing it could precipitate heart failure. I’m gonna smoke that pack of cigarettes despite the huge warning on the label. Rather, it was about blood sugar. But even that is perhaps too science-ish. I’m talking about how eating makes you feel – physically, and even emotionally.
[By this point, you may have noticed a slight departure from Childishman’s normal banter. Well, maybe that’s all part of being a childish man. You want me to go this way, so I go that way. Maybe out of spite or just to give y’all an early Christmas surprise. You’re welcome! But I won’t get into the details of blood sugar management nor the Hypoglycemic Index. You probably know it or can it within seconds if you care to. Back to my tale.]
I felt guilty about the three pieces of pizza I’d just eaten because I know better. Both Thanksgiving and my 10 year anniversary tour have passed so I can’t use those as excuses any longer and hope to look at myself in the mirror without disgust, at least not without electroshock therapy or some serious plastic surgery. I intended to get my shit together again.
When I awoke this morning, I got out a breakfast casserole we’d made over the weekend (ingredients: eggs, cheese, sausage and about a loaf of cheap white bread), popped a serving in the microwave and ate it before the kids came down and I rushed them off to school. By the time I’d dropped them off, I was hungry again. I needed a few basics from the store anyway, and as luck would have it (but it’s not luck at all is it!) there’s a refrigerator case right inside the entrance with prepared foods – old sandwiches, hot dogs wrapped in foil, and (dum dum dum) biscuits. Chicken biscuits, a dollar each.
But they’re only a dollar!
I dunno. I can’t even see what the biscuit looks like since it’s bundled in some kind of fishwrap.
Only a dollar. And hungry we are!
I can’t even read how to prepare it. Is that font size legal?
It’ll be fine. It’s only a dollar!
You know I bought it. When I got home, I had to take a picture of the back label and download it to my computer so I could blow it up in order to read how to heat up the damn thing. And when I finally read it, it warned me not to take the biscuit out of the wrapper before microwaving. One might think this is for uniform heating, but this is basic consumer psychology.
The makers of this processed food product know well that any of us would run batshit crazy out of our homes and move to Canada if we saw what one of these uncooked things looked like. This response is practically hard-wired in humans. And they also know that if they can get us to nuke the crap out of it – and I mean that not only to be crude but also literally – if they can get us to zap the well-developed civilizations of bacteria inside that disc of chicken mush, which also releases a smell reminiscent of actual food, then they’ve got us.
The point(s) is/are: I’ve done this before. I’ll probably do it again. I’m a professional (numb nut, that is). Don’t try this at home. And, finally, the best intentions, ideas, and knowledge don’t mean a damn thing if I don’t pay attention to what it feels like to do this.