Sometime in the past decade, as real diets and fad diets rose in power, a delicious corollary came into being. Well, delicious for others at least. There’s been an influx of healthy restaurants that offer unparalleled culinary freedom, see, and I’m always struck with wide-eyed confusion when I frequent them. I’m referring to establishments like Flat Top Grill and Pita Pete’s, vendors who promise infinite permutations and limitless chances of constructing savory bowls of shit.
By no means have I consumed real servings of poop, merely entrees that taste like poop. There’s a difference. It all begins when you step into the eatery and bear witness to dozens, maybe even hundreds, of ingredients chalked onto a board. You’ve got carrots, shredded carrots, chicken, beefalo, donkey, cucumber sauce, sweet-and-sour sauce, sweet-and-not-sour sauce, purple onions, cigarette butts, goat cheese, feta, fetid onion cheese, chocolate, toenail clippings, and oh my sweet Aunt Jemima my taste buds just burst.
Your bowl will always look delicious, make no mistake, and this illusion simply encourages you to pile on incompatible ingredient after incompatible ingredient.
“I’ve made a masterpiece,” you think as you pass your dish to the cook. “Man, it’s going to taste awesome.”
Eight minutes later, the waiter hands you a bowl you can’t quite describe. It’s like they grilled a whole lotta amnesia into your magnum opus. Half a dozen thoughts flash through your mind.
“I want an abortion.”
“I think someone already had an abortion.”
“Is…is that Captain Crunch?”
“I don’t remember dropping a Barbie doll in my bowl.”
“Who added nacho cheese?”
“Oh, so that’s where I left my watch.”
It’s like you went home with someone hot and woke up next to a llama the following morning. You made it, though, so it’s your fault. Now eat it.
We’re bound for a backlash of some sort, mark my words. One day, one day soon, you’ll stroll down your dining thoroughfare and discover a single item on the menu: totalitarianism. You’ll probably be forced to eat hamburgers, three a day, with ketchup. If you’ve been good.
During German class one day, on a qualified lazy afternoon, somebody offered a compelling argument for why we should shower in the morning. She outlined the Microbial Agenda, the nefarious plan of microscopic creatures to cover you, fill every pore with pathogenic glee, as soon as you fall asleep.
I’d show you a picture to tickle your corneas, make you gasp in horror, except this theory isn’t exactly what you’d call published. I mean, even if FEMA’s loading the trucks as we speak, I still can’t find a diagram of any sort. That means we’ll have to make our own picture. With words.
Bedtime. Your room is lit. You reach, reach as far as you can, and turn off the lamp on your nightstand. Darkness. You rest your head deeply in your pillow, stretching contentedly after a long day.
“It’s finally over,” you sigh.
How ignorant of you, because at that very moment a blanket of germs unhinges itself from the ceiling and lands on top of you, sealing your fate along with your nostrils.
If you had presented this theory to me a few years back, I would’ve snorted and conveniently grouped you with the rubes who believe all those other myths, such as the Easter Bunny and the legend of doing taxes before April 15. Pure poppycock, right? I’m not so sure.
Certainly I don’t believe our parasitic friends host extravagant raves on our forearms at precisely 12:45 AM every night, but I do think something magical happens when you shut your eyes. You can spend your entire day cleaning your apartment, dashing around and vacuuming and scrubbing, and then wake to the same level of filth you enjoyed last Saturday. It’s destiny. It’s like Father Time looked at your work, tucked you into bed, and unapologetically swept your efforts under the rug.
They apparently make tools to combat the dirtiness, furnishings crafted to ward off hair and dustbunnies. “Brooms.” “Vacuum cleaners.” “Clorox Wipes.” I couldn’t be bothered with using any of these devices, and the clutter slowly won. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how many baseboards I licked or corners I inhaled, my apartment would turn messy in a week.
“You’ve got to be the vacuum to do the vacuuming,” says an old proverb I invented not long ago.
Try as I might, though, my efforts are always in vain. It doesn’t matter how much double-stick tape I adhere to myself or how many hours I roll around my place, the muck will emerge victorious. Even the Shark Vacuum given lovingly by my mum is powerless.
How do you keep tidy, gentle reader? Unless we bathe our abodes in cleansing fire and mystic ululations, it seems we’re sentenced to cleaning every week.
Outsourced, because yours truly didn’t have any time today to reflect on civil rights, just ROI. I have a dream that one day, every site across our fair Internet will have advertising large and small, black and white, Flash and static HTML.
Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty, I can drive home at last.