Your Mom is Organic.

Eating healthy is fucking dumb.

Before you healthnuts start reaming factoids down my throat about the importance of treating our bodies well and how kale is going to make me glow like an orgasmic, pregnant unicorn, I’m going to have to stop you. You can roll around in your wheatgrass, organic flaxseeds and daily probiotics all you fucking want, but don’t even try to convince me to take part in your cult’o’douche.  Just hearing the word organic makes me want to vomit all over the 15 year old grocery clerk in the produce aisle.

Recently, while gallivanting around local a grocery store with a friend, it was brought to our attention that the store did not sell ‘regular’ celery or zucchini (and probably other fruits and veggies, but I didn’t break into a full investigation. Something for another day, folks). The only option was ‘organic’, which essentially means that the amount you’re paying for a handful of zucchinis is equivalent to sending little Eduardo, the Ecuadorian child you saw on TV on Sunday afternoon when you were hungover, to school for six years - without the benefit of knowing you’re helping the needy. Instead, all you are gaining is the knowledge that the produce you’re buying is ‘organic’- a convoluted term that probably mostly just means your fruits and veggies are covered in cow farts.

By definition, organic means: ‘of, relating to, or derived from living matter.’ No fucking shit, farmboy! Produce comes from living matter. That’s science. There are so many derivations of the term ‘organic’, that while the jolly, patchouli-sniffing hippie acts all high and mighty on their mound of organic tampons (sorry, Jen) and free trade roasted seaweed chips, it is extremely difficult to ensure that their products are, in fact, entirely chemical-free. What you can ensure, however, is that you’re paying preposterous prices. You may as well start wiping your ass with fivers, motherfucker.

I’ve said it once (or more?), and I’ll say it again: I’m a vegetarian. I’m one of those twatwaddlers that y’all love to hate.

I get it.

You love bacon.

Steak makes the world go round.

You love to suck flesh off of bones and lick your fingers ‘til they bleed.

That’s cool.

You do what you want, and I’ll do what I want. If I want to eat eggs and roll around in a puddle of melted gouda, then that’s exactly what I’ll do. Even vegans, while I don’t entirely respect their choice to live without the splendor of the All Mighty Aged Cheddar, can do what they want as well. As long as no one is telling me what I should and should not do, everyone will keep their fingers, tongues and earlobes.

I feel like I may have gotten off track a little bit. What was I talking about? Oh right, eating healthy.

I’ll tell you this much: whenever something tastes amazing, and you find yourself asking “What in the fuckity fuck is in this dish? Angel tears?” chances are it’s unhealthy. Guaran-fucking-teed that bitch is loaded with a shit-ton of butter, possibly cream, probably cheese and some sort of carb and/or potato. (Psst. Want to know a little know secret? If the wind is just right, and you listen very carefully, you can hear Jenny Craig weeping in her stanky broccoli treehouse while you shovel those deep-fried orgasms into your piehole. Let her weep, hog, let her weep.)

Try as I might, just thinking about eating ‘healthy, well-balanced’ meals makes me want to stab myself in the eye with a fondue fork (mmm fondue). But, the time of bathing suits and tank tops is looming, and my winter binge eating is really starting to pay off. And by ‘pay off’ I mean: if I were to take up bellydancing, the instructor would be extremely offended and probably reconsider a new profession.

While I’ve toyed with the idea of giving up cheese for a month or two, I’ve also realized that that’s fucking stupid. I didn’t get a university degree to make asshat decisions like that.

So instead I’m going to give up butter chocolate cake candy potatoes bread pasta streetmeat tacos rice. Yep, that’s the one. I’m going to give up white rice. Probably. Maybe. Ask me again next week.

Bon Appetite, fellow facestuffers.

Pass the Crisco.