The other day I was held hostage by a random stranger who had cornered me into listening to his political rantings. I listened politely for about thirty minutes as he rambled incessantly about Obama and the government. Trying to pull me into his debate, he asked me if I felt Florence Nightingale would be disappointed by the state of healthcare, if she were alive today. I responded with, “The singer? Probably not. All of those Hollywood people lean way to the left.” He seemed confused. To put it plainly, I’m just not that politically deep. I’m a huge fan of aspartame, I don’t care if deoxyhydrogenase is in my kids Cheerios, I feel that losing part of the ozone has helped my tan, and I don’t really see a need to make aluminum foil helmets to keep the government out of my brain. So today in honor of people who insist on asking me weird political questions, I decided to review some controversial topics, or at least a few topics that annoy me, enjoy.
Four years ago I spent eight hours turning my lady parts into a fetal obstacle course to give birth to an eight pound boulder. I was exhausted, so maybe I was dreaming when I met the hospital’s lactation expert for the first time. I swear she descended out of the sky like Glenda the Good Witch declaring the magical power of the breast. She had an angelic choir singing in the background, when suddenly the door to my hospital room flung open, and I was surrounded by the breast-feeding SWAT team. They proceeded to assault me with lactation propaganda and terminology, using words like colostrum and engorgement. Normally I would find these words pretty funny, sort of like kumquat, but at that particular moment I wasn’t really in the mood to laugh at the nipple mafia. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t slept in hours, or maybe it was simply because I felt like someone had detonated a grenade in my pants. Either way, I wasn’t thrilled about being dragged into lactation boot camp. Somehow amongst the chaos I managed scream out that I had absolutely no intent to breastfeed. There was a collective gasp, and panic ensued as they tripped over themselves frantically trying to shut the door to my room. They were struggling desperately to silence me so the other new moms on the ward wouldn’t be poisoned by my disdain for swollen, leaky boobs. Like a Mormon bicycle gang, they persisted in their mission to convert me from the bottle, but I stood my ground. My position on breastfeeding: not every woman wants to have two huge, leaking, watermelons, jammed inside an ugly, spandex bra with nipple flaps. That’s why God made Similac.
Equality sounds great in theory, and I’m all for it, but only to a certain point. For instance, if my house is burning to the ground, and I have my choice of a 200 pound, physically fit, fireman who can carry me down a flight of stairs to safety versus a 120 pound, flat-chested female that has to drag me down the stairs by my feet, smacking my head on every step on the way down, just take a wild stab at who I am going to choose. Other than that scenario, women and men are equal in every way, except for the mood swings, menstrual cramps, facial hair, breasts, testicles, and vaginas.
There is a group of people who I have named, “The Chronically Ill Facebookers.” Every phlegm ball, vaginal itch, and freaky rash is recorded on the news feed in excruciatingly, nauseating detail. They develop a sore throat and immediately recruit a family member to contact The Make A Wish Foundation on their behalf. If Facebook could give rectal exams, then I could see this as a crucial place to post your entire medical history, but just to clarify, the like button is a thumbs up, not an index finger.
On another Facebook note, I do not care if someone has decided to eat steroids for breakfast, wear leopard print spandex, and post a gazillion selfies of themselves in the gym club mirror. Fiber bars and “chocolate” protein drinks may help you stay regular, but they taste like a cardboard box covered in mulch. Bad carbs are what makes America great. Who would we be as a nation without Doritos, triple bacon cheeseburgers, and McDonald’s French fries? Okay, we’d be skinny, but that’s not the point. I was in the gym recently and a woman collapsed on the floor having a diabetic emergency. When I went to help her, I asked the crowd gathered around us to please have someone bring me some sugar. Everyone stared at me as if I had asked them to slaughter a goat and sacrifice its heart to Beelzebub. No one knew what to do. I literally had to scream at out, “Listen people, someone go find me a bad carb. It’s called Mountain Dew or Snickers!” I am completely opposed to any Facebook post related to someone’s pectorals, bulging veins in the neck, anything related to “eating clean”, and any post referring to “leg day.”
The Environment and Big Pharmacy:
There is a group of people out there who believe that anything that was not squeezed out of a body orifice or derived from hemp, is evil and comes straight from the devil’s rectum. They will ride an environmentally friendly scooter, 45.6 miles to the nearest organic propaganda store to ensure that not one preservative dare touch the skin under their armpits. They would prefer to carry body odor around like a Boy Scout badge, while protesting the government, pharmaceutical companies, and vaccines. They like to wear handmade sundresses recycled from disposable baby diapers, make their own tampons, and compost their poo. I’m sure there are some out there that not only hug trees, but are currently involved in a completely inappropriate, triple X relationship with some of them. Lastly, these people have absolutely no sense of humor because when they tell me that I should stay away from GMO’s (Genetically Modified Organisms), and I respond with, “Oh, you mean the people at Wal-Mart?” They refuse to laugh.
The Death Penalty:
There you go, I have exposed myself and all of the deep, inner workings of my brain. I’m sure you found it fascinating, as well as informative, and plan to spend the rest of your evening reliving the experience. I hope you had a magical President’s Day this month and are prepared to vote again in the next few years, not that I actually care. Just remember to keep your “I voted” sticker out of my face.