The Problem with Christmas: An Exercise in Rational Thought

I’d like to start this post with a pretty uncontroversial premise: We, as a nation, believe that adults should not be having sex with children. To most of us, we don’t ever feel the need to qualify this belief. It seems pretty self-evident. It’s gross and creepy and the idea of it makes most of us very uncomfortable. Beyond that, I think we all agree it can have devastating results for the child involved. Agreed?

Not only do we think it’s gross, creepy, uncomfortable, violent, and generally detrimental to people’s mental, emotional, and physical well-being, we’ve also made it a crime. Every state in the United States has statutory rape laws in effect. The first law I can find record of is from 1285 in England.[1] The age of consent used to be 12, until the late 19^th century when “feminists sought to increase the age of consent to protect young women from potentially coercive relationships.”[2]

The details vary from state to state, but they’ve all got something on the books in generally the same spirit: we as a society do not believe that a minor possesses the mental and emotional wherewithal to consent to sex.  If you are 15 and you have a 30-year old boyfriend (or girlfriend), and you say, “Yes, let’s have sex,” society intervenes.

“Yes, 30-year old boyfriend, let’s have sex,” hypothetical 15-year old you says.

Society responds, “Nuh-uh. Not on our watch.”

“But I’m an adult! I can make my own decisions! I’m ready and I want to do it!” You reply defiantly.

“Nuh-uh. You are not an adult. Your brain is physically still developing. Your body is still physical developing. You are not physically an adult. And judging by your emotional outburst, you’re not mentally an adult either.”

“My IQ is off the charts! I’m more intelligent than most adults!”

“But your parents drive you to school every morning. You’re a child.”

“I am not!”

“Look, that guy is a creepy weirdo who can’t convince adults to have sex with him, and so he is preying on your insecurities.” Society is adamant.

“He’s not preying on me! We’re in love!”

“Fall in love with someone your own age. At least you’re both kids then. There will be some innocence in it.”

“Boys my age are stupid!”

“Goddamnit. Go to your room.”

“I hate you society!” You scream defiantly. Then you sneak out of your room and have sex with the 30-year old in his parents’ car (or in the case of creepy weirdo women predators, her classroom [Note: Why are they always teachers? {Note within a Note: Why do we think it’s somehow cool when it’s a boy sleeping with a woman? Smells like gender hypocrisy.}]). Then Society arrests the boyfriend and says he raped you.

“We warned you!” says Society.

If this scene played out in Alabama, it’s second-degree rape (2 to 20 years in prison). If the kid was under 12, it’s first-degree rape (life or 10 to 99 years). Though in Alabama, the age limit is 16. If you’re older than 16, you can consent. If it’s in California, and you’re under 18, you can’t even “fall in love” with another 17-year old. It’s a misdemeanor. But if the person you “fall in love” with is under 16 and you’re over 21, you’re back in felony territory. (By "fall in love," I mean "have sex with.")

Conservative states, liberal states, Montana, etc., they all have some statute defining rape as something that happens even when both parties consent. Rationale? Society does not believe that people under certain age limits have the mental and emotional wherewithal to say no. It’s criminal. Everybody agree? Not a controversial statement.

So let me ask you this: How can we expect that a 15-year old virgin had the mental and emotional wherewithal to say no to GOD?! Holy shit!

“Yes, brilliant white light, mystical angel being who I’ve never seen or known anyone to have seen before, I will carry the child of God.”

Society responds, “Oh, well that’s totally different. And come to think of it, it’s cause for celebration!”

What?! How? But what about all those rape statutes?

“Well, it is God, so I’m pretty sure it’s okay,” says Society.

But how could she say no? If we didn’t think little Jessica McDougalhauser from down the street could say no to Creepy Larry, how could Mary say no to God? She didn’t have a choice!

“Well, God is only doing it to save the world and humanity.”

He couldn’t find another way? He’s God! What is he Zeus?

“Look, settle down. It’s not like they had sex. It was an immaculate conception. She just became pregnant. No penetration.”

So if Creepy Larry just artificially inseminated little Jessica McD that would have been okay?

“Well, no. That would still have been very very rapey.”

If anything, the immaculateness makes it even more galling. At least Zeus had the courtesy of turning himself into a beautiful swan and providing the mortals he knocked up the pleasure of having sex with a god.

Mary gets the worst of both worlds here: Impregnated by God yet STILL a virgin? Whenever the Devil fucks somebody in a movie, weird Antichrist spawn comes out of their vagina later on, but they always get their rocks off in that sex scene.

“Not in Rosemary’s Baby, that scene was very rapey as well.”

Touché Society! But still, look at Saint Theresa. God can get people’s rocks off. Why not Mary?

“Now you’re just being obscene.”

Nuh-uh. This whole celebration of God knocking up a 15-year old girl is obscene! Add in the claim that “we’re all God’s children,” and Christmas is just a celebration of a Deity raping His daughter. Where are the feminists on this one?

Pass the eggnog! Ho! Ho! Ho! Merrrrrrrrrrrry Christmas!

---

[1] http://www.sunypress.edu/pdf/60840.pdf, page 2 (accessed 12/24/12).

[2] Asaph Glosser, Karen Gardiner, and Mike Fishman, The Lewin Group. “Statutory Rape: A Guide to State Laws and Reporting Requirements,” published December 15, 2004: http://aspe.hhs.gov/hsp/08/sr/statelaws/intro.shtml (accessed 12/24/12).

Marriage--Just say "Happy Anniversary"

Next Saturday, I’m playing groomsman to my friend who’s getting married right here in Chicago. My wife’s cousin and her fiancée are staying at our house right now as they contemplate a move from Denver to Chicago next year, right around the time of their wedding. Another one of my friends has recently ended a six-year dating period with an engagement to be married in the next twelve calendar months. Throw in another cousin on my wife’s side and her brother, and I’m going to five weddings in the next year. More TBA? Not sure. But I can tell you this: The rush is on.
With all of this marriage in the air, I’m finding myself very reflective on my marriage, anniversaries, and wedding. And I’d like to share some thoughts on some of the things I’ve learned. And where better to start than the first anniversary?

Did you know that no one says, “Happy Anniversary” anymore? It’s true. I was really surprised to find that out. We had our first anniversary in May 2011. And nobody told me “Happy Anniversary.” Instead, they told me a bunch of other shit that doesn’t make any sense:

“Congratulations!” Congratulations? We didn’t win. We haven’t achieved a goal. I scored zero points. Ellen too. “Congratulations” is really for races and accomplishments. As in, “Congratulations on your promotion/1^st place finish/championship trophy!” Not for what ostensibly should be a romantic and very personal day.

Then there was a co-worker who came up with, “That is sooooooooo impressive!” I think this is pretty self-evidently a stupid thing to say. Because it’s not “soooooooo impressive.” It’s not even “so impressive.” If one year of marriage is impressive, I think we as a society are setting the bar a little low. Yes, 50% of marriages end in divorce. But I’d bet that 99% of those 50% also made it to one year. “Soooooooo impressive!” 10 years might be impressive. 15 years might be so impressive. And 25 years might be sooooooooooo impressive. 1 year should be taken for granted.

But my favorite piece of not saying “Happy Anniversary” was my boss. A great guy, like him a lot. And, I must add, I was really impressed that he remembered that it was my anniversary. I didn’t tell him. But the day of my first anniversary, I sat in my cube doing some piece of work, and he knocks on my cubicle wall behind me. I turn, and he’s got a smile on his face.

“Isn’t it your anniversary?”

“Yes it is.”

“That’s fantastic. You did it!”

Oh my thoughtful boss, my friendly, personable leader, it is fantastic. But we did not “do” it. The vow was “’til death do us part.” Not “’til a year or so.” If Ellen dies before me, and I’m standing beside her coffin, then by all means tell me “You did it!” I’ll give you a big high five and shout in celebration, “Death did us part! We did it! We had a successful marriage!”

Death is really the only means of succeeding once you tie the knot. Not to be dark and disturbing or anything. But it’s true. It’s a vow not given lightly. To have and to hold. In sickness and health. Good times and bad. Til death do us part.

In year one, we encountered nothing. We had some bills. Gas, electric, rent. But we were both gainfully employed. We went on a two week honeymoon to Italy where we treated ourselves to much wine and food. We hung out a lot. We went on a couple vacations. I think I had a cold for a week in there somewhere. On the honeymoon actually. Which was a bummer, but really not such a bad time. And I think Ellen had some knee issues for a while there from running too much and not stretching. So to summarize, in year one, we had, we held, in health, no sickness encountered, through no bad times, just good times, and neither of us died. It was a start, but we did not “do it.”

Before we got married, people would say, “The first year’s the hardest.” But if that’s true, the rest of our marriage is going to be an increasingly Bacchanalian love fest. I’m not saying we’re going to start partaking in orgies. But it can’t really get easier.

Others have said, “After the first year it’s all downhill.” And really, I don’t understand the whole “uphill/downhill” comparison in terms of good and bad. If things are downhill from here, that sounds great. Downhill sounds like we should get a sled out and, “Wheeeeeeeeee!!!” Downhill is the fun part. Then people also say, “It’s all uphill from there!” As though it’s a good thing. Why is going uphill good? Uphill is hard work. It's easier on your knees, granted. But still, you get winded. And your quads get all sore. I don’t understand these phrases. I digress.

After year two and halfway into three, I can say it’s not been downhill. Or uphill. More or less fun. More or less hard. It’s just been good. But again, we haven’t faced anything. And death has not done us part. So I count my blessings. And I cringe when May rolls around, and people say anything other than “Happy Anniversary.” It’s really the perfect phrase for the occasion, almost as if it was created just for anniversaries.

"Earbuds" Are Just Shitty Headphones

I recently had a few days off work, most of which was spent sitting around my house, watching TV. Very productive time off, I admit. One problem with my sedentary lifestyle popped up on the second day: there’s no food in the house. So I sit in my underwear, on my sofa, in total silence and contemplate what I should eat. I toss around various ideas in my head—I could order a pizza, order some Chinese food, Jimmy John’s. I essentially go through a list of places that deliver food because I don't want to put on pants. Then it registers in my mind that I'm sitting on my couch in silence listing places that deliver food because I don't want to put on pants. When faced with my undeniable laziness, I decide I need to get out of the house.

Decision one is made. I will leave the house. Feel sunshine. I regret that I will have to put on clothes, but such are the burdens of modern society. But I’m going. Now to decide on “where.” I could go to Kuma’s Corner. It’s noon. I’ll get right in, eat a cheeseburger, have a beer, and be on my merry way. But I am fat. And I really need to fight the urge to continue being fat. It’s such a short-term reward. Mmmm cheeseburger with pancetta and grease sauce on it. So good. For the 15 minutes I’m eating it. And then it’s just me looking down at my midsection while the voice in my head berates me.

Really? Was that necessary? Look at yourself. Look at what you've done to yourself. You don't even feel good. You ate too much and you can feel the grease coming through your pores. Goddamnit.

So no. No Kuma’s. I could go to Urban Belly. Noodles. Soup. That can’t be bad for you, right? And it’s delicious. But it’s noon and I don’t really feel like spicy Asian food. I'm just not in the right mood. Sushi? No, same deal. Plus with all that white rice, sushi can be sneaky similar to a cheeseburger in the calorie department. And the short-term reward isn’t nearly as high. So why sushi? Never sushi. Always cheeseburger. This is a new mantra. From now on, if I’m consuming 1500 calories, I’m eating a cheeseburger. End of story.

But today, I’m not eating 1500 calories. Because I’m not being fat. And that means I’ll have to prepare my meal myself. Which means: grocery store.

So I put on my gray sweatpants and a Wisconsin hoodie, grab a reusable grocery bag so I can feel like I’m part of the solution, and drive four blocks to the grocery store. First stop: produce. I grab a vine-ripened tomato and the perfect avocado—firm, but yielding. I’m not even going to use mayonnaise, just the avocado. It’s nature’s mayo. I don’t know what that means, but I’m sticking to it. I make my way to the bakery en route to the deli counter and grab WHOLE WHEAT BREAD! I know! I don’t even want it. I saw the ciabatta roll looking all sexy next to it. But no, I went all in. Whole wheat bitches. Now all I need is to make the healthy decision on my meat. Some would ask, “Why not skip the meat altogether?” Because I eat babies! That’s why.

What’s the healthy decision on meat? Turkey. No contest. So I grab a number and begin eyeballing my turkey choices. There’s smoked, there’s honey roasted, black pepper. Oooo, black pepper. I like me some black pepper. Decision made. I’ll just have to wait my turn. I take in my surroundings.

There is one lady working the deli counter, and besides the person she’s currently serving there’s only one other customer: some twenty-something woman with short hair and a sporty windbreaker on. Wearing headphones. And this is where my story takes a twist. Because as soon as I see those headphones, my day is ruined. RUINED, I say.

Is it really necessary to listen to music while you’re buying groceries? Is the world so boring and you so unique that the only way you can muster the energy to conduct your chores is by picking out a soundtrack to conduct those chores by? I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

The woman at the deli counter says, “Sixty-seven.” She’s half-dejected. Her words say the number, but her voice says, “Which one of you assholes is next? I’ve got five more hours of this.” I look at my ticket. “68.” It must be headphones over there.

“Sixty-seven,” comes from Deli Counter Woman again. D.C. for short.

“It must be her, I’m sixty-eight,” I reply.

D.C. looks to Headphones Lady, “Ma’am, are you sixty-seven?” No response from Headphones Lady, H.L. for short.

No response! Unbelievable. This lady isn’t paying attention. She’s got her goddamn headphones on, probably listening to some stupid shit I don’t even know what it is, standing in line at the deli counter, not even paying attention. What the shit.

“Ma’am?” This is me now. I’m playing the role of nice guy. “I think you’re up.” If you didn’t have your headphones on you’d probably know that, but nooooooo. Taylor Swifty or some chick who spells her name with a dollar sign is more important than being a participant in the world!

“Excuse me!” I get louder, and so does the voice in my head. Get your salami! ARRGGHH!!! [Rage noise.]

D.C. turns to me. “Whatever,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “It’s your turn now. She had her chance. She’s got them headphones on.” Yeah, and she probably calls them “earbuds” because that’s a thing now too.

I’m stoked that D.C. has come through with this affirmation. I am not alone in this world! It’s not just me! I step forward and hand my ticket to D.C.—

“Excuse me!” H.B. cuts in. With two words Headphones Lady becomes Headphones Bitch. And it’s not just the voice in my head who hates her. Public Lou hates her now too. “I was here before you. I’m number sixty-seven. Wait your turn," she tells me.

Wait your turn?! She admonished me? I tried! I fucking tried! I was super nice, but you weren’t here! You were hanging out with Kei$ha in your own little world! Oh you should die! You should just die! You terrible terrible person.

“But I—” Oh, Public Lou, you’re such a pussy. “Go ahead.”

I can’t tell if D.C.’s eyes are saying “I’m sorry” or if they’re agreeing with my inner monologue, “Such a pussy.” But after their secret communiqué, they roll. Then they turn to H.B. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I need a pound of this chickpea salad. I just love the cumin.” You love the cumin? Oh you suck so bad.

Ruined. My. Day.

The Problem with the Lincoln Movie

Oh man, just saw Lincoln with the wife. Big fan. Good movie. I think everyone will agree. Everybody seems to agree on Abraham Lincoln. Good guy. He may be the only one. Him and Washington maybe. Though Washington had slaves. So maybe not. Some people probably think that makes Washington a hypocrite. I do a little bit. Jefferson? Don’t like him at all. I digress.

I think what was most impressive about Lincoln was that they humanized him. He’s such an iconic figure, he’s bigger than life, I think it often escapes us that he’s human. It’s easy to kind of put him on the mantle and forget that he was a person. And I think the movie showed that a bit. It showed his thinking. It showed him as a man with emotions and faults. It was really quite good in that respect.

However, I think it could have gone farther. I find that for all of the humanizing that movies do , for all of the attempts at bringing a figure “down to Earth,” so to speak, there are two scenes that they never go to. I imagine directors avoid these scenes in an effort to preserve the dignity of the characters. But “dignity” I think is too easy of an excuse for maintaining a barrier between us and them. The two scenes to really flesh out a character’s humanity are (1) the interrupted poo, and (2) the spurned sex scene.

They don’t need to be portrayed in an undignified way even. But when executed properly, they can really show the audience the character’s humanity.

Picture this:

Scene: Abraham Lincoln just left a heated argument with Thaddeus Stevens about the 16^th Amendment. He shouts Stevens down, displaying the character’s raw emotions, then storms off. Cut to Lincoln in the latrine. He’s just finished taking care of business and sits reading the latest headlines of the newspaper. [Don’t show any cringing or pushing. That would be too much. Just sitting on the toilet. Reading the newspaper.] Enter Mary Todd Lincoln.

Sally Field: Abraham! How many times have I told you to wipe the mud off your shoes before you go trouncing through the West Wing! And that’s yesterday’s paper.

Daniel Day-Lewis: [Note, really ham it up like only Daniel Day-Lewis can] Damnit woman! Is there nowhere I can have a moment’s peace! The fate of a nation rests upon my weary head, and I can’t find a moment’s peace for restful contemplation!

Pretty good, huh? The thing is, we can all relate. Everyone who’s been married has had the interrupted poo. Sometimes it’s okay. But sometimes you just need to get a little Daniel Day-Lewis on the interrupter, “As for you, Mr. Interrupter, you come down to the Bathroom again, and you'll be dispatched by my own hand. Get back to your celebration and let me shit in peace.”

And just like that, everyone sees Lincoln as a man. Just like the rest of us. Puts his pants on one leg at a time. Or if that’s not enough, try scene two:

Scene: Mary Todd is putting china away after a state dinner. We look at her through the arch of a doorway. She’s all alone in the poorly lit dining room of the White House. Abraham’s silhouette steps into the doorway. The outline of his top hat is clear against light in the room. He steps into the room, and the lighting reveals that other than the hat, he is naked.

Daniel Day-Lewis: [Clears his throat]

Sally Field: [Drops a dish. Jumps] Abraham, you star- [turns and sees a naked Daniel Day-Lewis]. No! No! Not in the dining room. And not in that silly top hat.

Day-Lewis: Mary Todd, come on…

Field: Mary Todd nothing. We’ve been over this before. The hat is not a pathway to seduction. Now you go and put some clothes on and stop acting a fool. [To herself] Made me break a dish.

Day-Lewis: Yes dear.

Lincoln hangs his head and walks from the room.

See? Human! Who hasn’t been there? Put those scenes in your movie Mr. Spielberg and I’ll say you’ve done it. Because that shit happened to Lincoln. I guarantee you that. There’s no way Mary Todd never walked in on him shitting. And there’s no way he never tried to get some wearing nothing but that hat. It had to have happened. When Spielberg has the balls to make that statement? To challenge the audience that way? That's the day he'll earn his place on my mantle as an iconic figure. Consequently, that’s also the day we’ll need someone to make a biopic of Spielberg that includes a scene where Kate Capshaw catches him masturbating.

Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream

Does anybody have weird dreams? I frequently find that I have some pretty oddball dreams. And I remember them all vividly. As I recount them to my wife, she tells me she can’t remember any of her dreams. Generally, she finds it kind of neat: that I have this ability to recall vivid aspects of my subconscious. But I don’t tell her about all of my dreams. Some are just too odd. Still, I’ve shared some doozies with her:

“Oh man, last night I had the WEIRDEST dream.”

“What was it this time?”

“I’m a little uncomfortable sharing it. It’s kind of one of those dreams I wish I didn’t have, or at least didn’t remember.”

“Just tell me.”

“I dreamt of my dead dog.”

“That’s not weird.”

I cringe. “Sexually. I dreamt of my dead dog sexually.”

“What?!”

“I know! I didn’t want to. As it was happening, I was like, ‘this is super weird.’ I was conscious of it. And conscious of the horribleness of it. I’ve been feeling very strange about it since last night.”

“That’s messed up,” she tells me. But it feels good to have told someone. A weight has been lifted. It’s as though my telling her, and her subsequently telling me that it’s messed up, absolves my mind of any concern that I may need help. That I may be a real-life dogfucker. Nope, just a fucked up dream. Well, I may need help, the jury’s out, but it feels better. That it’s been acknowledged and I’m not getting divorced puts my mind at ease.

And then there’s last night. No, last night I was not penetrating a dead animal, beloved or otherwise. Last night’s dream falls under the category of “Don’t tell your wife.” And being a guy who told his wife about dead dog sex dreams, it takes a lot to get into that category.

It started normally enough. I was at my friend Heather and Steve’s house. They were having a party. A bunch of people I knew were there. Current family and friends were there. Some people I haven’t seen since grade school. Isn’t it odd how these people show up 20 years later in a dream? “Hey Greg, haven’t seen you since we were children, and yet somehow my mind has projected an image of you as an adult that my mind accepts as real. Good to see you!”

I digress. Great party. We’re playing poker or cards of some sort. Grade school Greg, Heather, my wife, historical figures I couldn’t have met, they’re all there, and it’s time for a snack. I get up and go to the kitchen. And it’s vivid. In this dream, I am in Heather and Steve’s kitchen. Visually, it’s as close to reality as possible. And so I think it is reality in the dream. My conscious mind is fully present. And Heather’s got this great spread out on her island countertop. Chips and dips. Fruits. And heartier things, like fried chicken. I zero in on the bucket of fried chicken, reach in, pull out a piece and Heather walks into the room.

“Great party,” I tell her. “I love this spread.” I take a bite of the chicken leg and it registers as amazing. Fantastic. The ultimate chicken leg.

“Oh thanks. I’m glad you could make it.” Easy banter goes on, while I’m eating this chicken leg. My mind isn’t on the conversation I’m holding, it’s on how I can’t believe how good this chicken leg is. It’s flavorful, it’s moist, it’s got a crisp skin in every bite. Salty, greasy, heaven. And I don’t even like chicken legs.

“This chicken is great,” I say. She looks at the chicken leg. Her face goes blank. I look at the chicken leg. Only it’s not a chicken leg. It’s a baby leg.

A human baby leg. Anatomically correct. Removed at the top of the femur, so there’s a little hip flesh on there, all the way down to the five teeny little toes. It’s all there minus the large chunks of quadriceps that I’ve been masticating on.

And I am horrified. In the dream, I am horrified. I’m eating a baby leg. And Heather is horrified. She storms out of the room. Slowly, the shock dissipates. My conscious mind catches up with the dream, and the voice in my head says, “Well I guess baby leg tastes awesome!” And I take another bite.

Now at this point, I wake up. I literally woke myself up, sprung up in bed, and out loud said, “What the fuck.” And I began debating the meaning in my head.

Am I a cannibal? Did I just eat something bad before bed? After I realized what was happening, why was that my reaction? Why did I take another bite?! What is the meaning of this? No, no, no. I’m not doing this.

I look at the clock and see that it’s 3 AM. I decide it’s best to just repress this one and hope to forget. And I fall back asleep, and have pleasant dreams. Against all odds, I forget about the episode and fall back to sleep.

I wake up like any other day, which is to say I snooze four or five times, reluctantly get out of bed and stumble to the kitchen in my underwear. I turn on some coffee and go to take a shower. I turn on the hot water, and step back from the shower, letting it run a while to heat up. Take off my underwear. Step on the scale to weigh myself. 197. “Not bad,” I think. “Progress.” I turn around to test the water, it’s hot. I step in.

In the shower, normal routine. Pick up the soap, rub it on my neck. I let the hot water wash the sleep from my eyes and begin working the soap down my torso. But before I get to my armpits, a thought jumps into my head:

“Did I have a dream about eating a baby last night?” I make a confused face, like dogs do when they cock their heads. Furrowed brow. I’m pondering. I did. I did have a dream about eating a baby last night. I kind of laugh and chalk it up to “What the fuck is wrong with me.” But I can’t get it out of my head for the rest of the day.

It’s torturing me.

I have a nephew who’s three months old. Where did this come from? I’ve never thought about eating HIM. Or anyone for that matter. It’s never even crossed my mind.

I’m beating myself up all day over this.

 I need to see a therapist. I need to get God back in my life. I need more Vitamin B.

I cannot get over it. I go to work and the guy in the cubicle next to me says, “Hi, how’s it going” when I get in. All I can think is, “I ate a baby last night. How are you doing?” They serve chicken at the cafeteria for lunch. I think, “Dream baby tasted better.” Then my immediate next thought is, “Noooooooo! Shut up stupid voice that just said ‘dream baby tasted better’ in my head! Don’t exist! No, no, no, no, no!” The conscious voice in my head over punctuates like crazy.

 It was just a different version of that old scary story where the guy goes to get fried chicken and he gets a rat instead. Only instead of a rat it was a baby leg. And instead of stopping when I realized what it was, I thought “Well I guess baby leg tastes awesome!” Which makes it not a version of that story at all, but something real and twisted and dark and perverse inside of my mind!

It tortures me all day.

When I get home, I take a deep breath. I say to myself, “Let’s think this out. Let’s get rational.” And as I think about it, it occurs to me that I didn’t really discover anything outrageous in that dream. In all probability, baby probably does taste good. How can it not? We chain up baby cows so that they can’t walk or stand, so that when we slaughter them their muscles are sweet, tender veal. Baby baby is the same thing, but without the chains. Babies can’t hold their heads straight. Their neck muscles are so weak (read “tender”) that their skulls wobble to and fro. Or should I say, their delicious neck muscles?

Honestly, what’s going to be juicier: baby back ribs? Or baby baby back ribs? Baby baby back ribs. No contest. Those cows have been on their feet for months. Baby baby can’t even sit up! There is literally no shape to the muscles between those bones.

Next time you hold a baby, feel its leg. See if you can find any muscle definition. There is none. None! It’s just like this fleshy bulb screaming to be deep fried with a side of ranch dressing.

Shocking, I know. But it really needn’t be. I’ve thought this through thoroughly. I had to. Because I had to be okay with having that dream. And I am. Because vegetarians have the premise right. Cows, pigs, chickens, etc. These are living, sentient animals. They have emotions. They’re not human, but when you think about it, it’s no less odd to tear into their flesh for sustenance given the abundance of salad than it is to consume a baby. We destroy life needlessly because it tastes good. Where I part with vegetarians is in the conclusion. They say "don’t eat pigs, cows, etc. because it’s wrong." I say, “Why stop there?”

Thought experiment time! Suspend the emotional attachment you have to the concept of people. It’s difficult. But try. You go to a restaurant. You order filet. It comes out with a nice peppercorn crust and a side of mashed. You cut in. It’s red and juicy and it cuts like butter. You take a bite. Velvety. Then the waiter informs you it’s not a cow, it’s Uncle Bill. Did it still taste good? You're God damn right it did! You thought it was velvety! I told you to imagine that! What’s changed?! What’s your problem? Emotions? Your attachment to Uncle Bill?

I’m not saying we should murder. I’m not advocating that at all. I’m just saying Uncle Bill’s dead. And you’re going to bury him? You’re going to drain his lifeless body of blood, have some weirdo in a funeral home break his backbone, tack his eyelids shut, pump him full of formaldehyde, paint him, put him on display, and then bury him in the ground to nourish maggots and worms? People are starving. There is a food crisis going on. Put the guy to some use, damnit. People are always telling me to look at the bright side. Here’s a bright side for you:

There are food shortages in Africa? And you’re calling it an AIDS crisis? Throw them in a pot of water. I’m pretty sure you can boil the AIDS out. I call it an AIDS solution to world hunger. What’s that? I just put thousands of not-for-profit organizations out of business? Let them eat babies.

Not babies we killed. I’m not condoning murder. That’s not cool at all. Still born babies! The most tender of all. Your tragedy is Thanksgiving to the guy living under the overpass.

What's that? He got hit by a truck? Brilliant! He’s already been tenderized! He’ll braise like a charm!

No more funerals. Just feasts. Slow roast me over an open fire. Let the tough cuts go to the distant relatives. Let the prime cuts serve my immediate family. And so on, to the balls.

It’s fine. I know it sounds terrible. But it’s fine. Just let it settle. Go take a shower. By the time you get to your armpits, you’ll be reconsidering your funeral plans. And if I haven’t sold you, it’s not like I don’t think dog fucking is weird.