I’ve been sitting on this entry for a few days now, pondering my state of mind. I’ve been tired and overworked, and how do I know that I’m not just being a cranky bitch? Only I’m not this time. My neck has been cracked and all my synapses are firing properly again, so I’m 100% confident in my righteousness when I tell you:
I would make a terrible hippie.
For one thing, I like showers. The best thing about communing with nature is that when you’re done, you can wash it off with soap and hot water.
Deodorant is also a must for me since I don’t believe in the bacteria produced in your sweat glands as a musk which I should wear proudly. Anyone who’s been on a week long camping trip knows what it’s like to wonder where the rotting smell is coming from before realizing that you’re the rotten smell. This is not an experience that one should subject polite company to on a daily basis.
I also don’t believe in the superiority of organic anything. Organic fruits and vegetables are expensive, usually tasteless, and nothing that I couldn’t achieve myself by washing my produce before consumption, which I do already. I also think that test tube food is a GREAT idea. Seriously, if grocery stores would put labels on their genetically modified produce, I’d buy out the entire stock on the slim chance that my FrankenFruit might give me superhero abilities. Because there is nothing dumber than a group of fat hippies berating starving countries for feeding themselves by planting GM crops that are high yield and disease resistant.
And meat! Sweet, tasty beast flesh! It’s a love affair for me. Slap a hunk of beef on my plate – the redder the better. Bambi’s mom is tasty with a red wine reduction. I want the lobster in the tank with the reputation for picking the most fights. My chicken breasts should rival me in cup size. In short, I love me some animal flesh and I have very little care for whether it’s free range or caged tighter than a Jenga block.
I needed to stop at the store last night to get some stuff for dinner, along with some veggies because I’ve been desperate for rabbit food lately. Since I happened to be in the neighborhood, and it was on my way home, I decided to stop in and check out the Willy Street Co-op. Big friggin’ mistake. Here’s a sampling of what I found in that store, and a textbook example of what is wrong with America.
I passed a gaggle of the stereotypical patchouli wearing, sweat-scented libertwats who won’t wear antiperspirant because of breast cancer concerns.
I listened to a pungent man with a bird nest for a beard who was telling the butcher about how he can taste the difference between organic and non-organic beef as he was holding a package of beef chuck from the meat packing company that processes my boss’s deer and cows every year. (They don’t deal in organic cows unless you’re the one providing the cow.)
*Also, for all the dickbags who insist that slaughtered animals are stressed and terrified at their plight and secreting harmful hormones that somehow taints the meat, You’re fucking morons. The hormone you’re grasping for like a Thalidamide baby is called adrenaline. It already exists in your body, and the only harmful side effect of it is that you don’t secrete enough to make your heart explode and rid the world of your idiocy. Back the fuck up off my steak, shitbrick.
I derived a perverse amount of pleasure from watching a vegan couple lose their shit when I put my milk, eggs, cheese, and bloody cow flesh on the same conveyor belt as their quinoa and q’orn meatless products. Like their tofu wasn’t sitting in the same spot as someone’s lambchop 10 minutes earlier… I’m not even going to touch this subject but to say that evolution will take care of you hapless weaklings, if you don’t get eaten by a fucking cow first.
Then I got lectured by the cashier for not coming to them sooner before going on to tell me how we’re so much wiser for spending three times as much on organic mushrooms than regular ones. Pro-tip, asshole: they all propagate in shit.
So even if I hadn’t been completely turned off by all these pretentious people and their unsubstantiated claims that non-organic is destroying the environment, then they told me about how a co-op share program works. For being a single shopper, I pay $58 a year to be a member-owner with one voice. As a household, I pay $97 a year for 2 shoppers with one voice. Say what? I called their main office to inquire further.
“Membership is $58 a year for a single shopper and $97 for a 2 person household. If I’m the only person in the household shopping, I would just pay the $58, right?”
“Actually, it’s an ownership share, not a membership, and if you don’t live alone, you would have to pay for the household share.”
“Let me get this straight – I’m only shopping there for vegetables. My husband swears adamantly that he only got married so that he didn’t have to eat vegetables anymore, so he derives no benefit from this membership, but we still have to pay twice as much for “one voice” as you put it?”
“That’s correct. Your married partnership means you share a voice.”
“Believe me, where our household meal planning is concerned, he never has a voice.”
“You’d still have to pay the household share amount.”
“Screw that. I’ll spend $50 less and go renew my Costco membership.”
The farm to table philosophy is great, in theory, but this is Wisconsin. The farms are in our back yards, and no one is going to spend $50+ dollars on something I can get from Brennan’s market for free. And they sample hot cider, fresh lemonade, and cheese whenever I’m in there.
Quite frankly, if I’m going to be subjected to pretentious hipsters and hippie kumtwats, I will at least shop at Whole Foods where those people shower regularly.