Sri Lanka. I just realized I started my last two blog posts with “Shaba laba ding dong,” and “Shaba daba ding dong” respectively. So, today I decided to go with something a little different. Sri Lanka. We are going with Sri Lanka. What about Sri Lanka, you ask? I have no idea. I couldn’t tell you the first thing about Sri Lanka other than it probably sucks. Speaking of sucks, how about this airborne diabetes that’s been going around?
Could you imagine? Airborne diabetes. You’re just eating a donut and all of a sudden the person next to you goes into cardiac arrest because you couldn’t eat with your mouth closed. Secondhand diabetes.
“I didn’t know you had diabetes. Type one or type two?”
“Secondhand actually.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Keep your enemies close and your insulin closer. That’s what I always say, you know?”
“I don’t know. What is secondhand diabetes?”
“Well, you know about secondhand smoke, right?”
“Yeah…”
“Yeah, so like that… but with sugar.”
“Are you fucking with me?”
“No, I’m not fucking with you. Don’t make me feel worse than I already do.”
“Jesus. I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah easy with the Laffy Taffy there Willy Wonka.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
“I’m… I’m just gonna go…”
“You won’t be missed.”
“What?”
“What?”
“What did you just say?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah… enjoy your diabetes.”
“I will. I will enjoy my diabetes.”
I don’t want to get in trouble for plagiarizing so I should probably let you all know that the previous section was taken directly from Mein Kampf.
They should do a revision of Mein Kampf called Mein Diabetes.
“Zya I got ze secondhand diabetes and zen I say ze Jews will pay for zis!”
I’m gonna be so rich. There’s no way a publisher could possibly turn down a proposal for Mein Diabetes. What if that was the real story? What if the whole reason Hitler had so much rage was because he was suffering from an undiagnosed case of secondhand diabetes? So many lives could have been saved. If only we knew.
I’m going on a diet. I’m going to exclusively eat seaweed for the foreseeable future until I either turn into a fish or die. Wish me luck. I wonder if you could smoke seaweed. Weed is great and all, but what if seaweed is where the real answers to all your problems lie?
Maybe seaweed can cure secondhand diabetes… Now. NOW we are onto something. It’s a medical breakthrough, folks. We’ve made it to the promise land. THIS IS WHAT WE PLAY FOR!
I really wish a professional athlete would say something ridiculous like that in a post-game interview. I’m a huge fan of people completely losing it for a second, and that would be so worth it.
“So, what was going through your mind on that last drive?”
“Well, I was just thinking about how seaweed could be the cure for secondhand diabetes.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I follow.”
“SMOKE THE TURKEY’S BEAK AND FREE THE SAND PEOPLE!”
Obviously I’m insane. It’s fine, though. Everything is fine. I’m just bored, to be honest. Bored of people saying the same thing over and over again. Bored of everyone biting their tongue all the time. Maybe bored isn’t the right word. Tired. Frustrated. Charcutier board. One of those things.
Everyone is just so shampoo and conditioned on how to behave. I think I wrote about this earlier, where most people are essentially just a collection of their habits and might as well be robots. Yeah, I definitely wrote about that. In fact, it was only a few posts ago, so feel free to dip your nipples into that post if you so desire.
Speaking of nipples, I need to get laid. I hate that phrase. “Get laid.” You gonna get laid, broooooo? I strongly desire the sharing of a sexual experience with a woman. There. That’s better. Aren’t I a gentlemen?
“No, Jason. You’re just a fucking NERD! That’s why you can’t get laid, bro! Ahahahahaha!”
It’s frustrating, I gotta be honest. I had really bad social anxiety my entire life and talking to women was so difficult for me for a long time. I was always very skinny and I didn’t have any confidence. It’s only in the last year that I’ve conquered my social anxiety, gotten in good physical shape, become really comfortable with myself, and developed strong confidence. I’m making good money, I know exactly what I want to do with my life, and I’m happy. And all of this has actually made me desirable to women, but it’s tough to meet new people with the pandemic.
But that’s okay. It will end. I guess the more important thing to take away from it is that you can change. I used to think girls didn’t like me, but it was mostly in my head. I thought I was too awkward or weird or shy for any girl to ever like me, and I psyched myself out. Turns out, plenty of girls did actually like me, I was just so in my own head that I couldn’t actually allow myself to be liked.
I was also trying to appeal to girls that would never actually like someone like me, anyway. Which is a total fool’s errand, because I wasn’t being myself. I was trying to be whatever I thought they would like, which is silly. There isn’t a single person on this planet that everyone else likes. You have to find your people, whether it’s friends or lovers. I understand now that there are tons of girls who like weird and have the same silly sense of humor that I do, and I don’t need to try to appeal to some hot girl who likes guys with lifted trucks and a superiority complex. She’s never going to like me anyway, and that’s totally fine.
The point is, I feel good about myself and I’m excited to meet new people. I’m not even nervous, just excited, and that’s a nice feeling.
Wasn’t that a lovely sidebar? We went from diabetes jokes to introspective journey so quickly. Oh, how the tides turn. That’s basically how my mind works on a daily basis. One minute it’s in the land of nonsensical absurdities, and the next thing I know I’m deep in thought about something painfully serious. I think it’s very confusing for people. Oh well. WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Sugar is indeed evil. My friend Monica’s uncle succumbed to it, or more specifically, cranberries. Um, well, not the airborne kind that comes with the dry powdered cranberries. But Monica is OK, but if you meet her, she’ll tell you this story a few hundred time or so:
Last year poor Uncle Joe got poisoned by the cranberries. Cranberries are evil you know, but I love cranberries. I’m bringing them again this year for fun and magic.
Ever since someone started the fad that “sugar is evil”, I’ve done very well with my cranberry sauce. For every 12 ounces of cranberries, it’s recommended that you use one cup of water and one cup of sugar. So I just announce, “This has more than one cup of sugar. For those of you who are diabetic, please don’t eat any, and for those of you who don’t know because you haven’t been tested: I’ll drive you to the emergency room if you go into shock.” For years it worked very well because no one ate any and I got to take it back home along with a bunch of leftovers. But then they started a new fad that “high fructose corn syrup is evil and sugar is somewhat OK.” I tried making cranberry sauce with corn syrup but it didn’t taste that good.
Last year, bringing my special cranberry sauce, I went to my sister’s house in the pine forest. It’s a wonderfully huge house with a lot of land just outside of Mysteryville. From the size of the estate you would think she’s rich, but she’s not. She got it very cheap (they almost paid her to take it), because there were rumors that it was built on sacred Indian ground where the native tribes had said there were openings into the spirit world. But my sister is not superstitious so she took it with its charming ambience fearlessly, and she’s always said she’s never had a problem.
When I got to the table I said, “Attention, if you’re diabetic…”
My sister interrupted, “Yeah, we know. You can take it home with you if no one has any.”
I sat down and grumbled. Uncle Joe came dressed as Santa Claus and he had a great time giving gifts to the children sitting next to the sacred pine tree that my sister had chopped down. It was decorated traditionally with tinsel and bobbles and little reindeer figures. Uncle Joe said his ho-ho-ho’s and drank a little wine, and had some cranberry sauce.
Sometime during the din of conversation and frolic we heard sirens in the background, but we ignored it. A while later someone noticed that Santa was missing. But conversation became transformed by songs, merriment, and the sound of children laughing as they unwrapped their gifts with glee.
I was bored so I shouted out, “Where’s Santa?”
“Who cares?” my sister said.
Suddenly, Santa Claus returned. He said, “Which children have been naughty and which have been nice? Who made the cranberry sauce?”
“I did, I did!” I said.
Santa began to glow and glow with an intense light. Soon it was a blinding light, and with a burst and a popping noise, he transformed himself into a wolf who lapped up the rest of the cranberry sauce and everything else on the table. I screamed because I knew I wouldn’t be getting any left-overs.
“Where’s Uncle Joe?” I said.
“He’s at the hospital,” my sister said.
I looked at the wolf and back at my sister. “Who’s this then?”
“It’s one of the gnomes. They like to party every ten years. Don’t worry, I have some extra food in the refrigerator for you to take home.”
This year I’m taking cranberry sauce and dog food. My sister does have interesting parties sometimes, and she still says that she’s never had a problem living in the pine forest.
Somehow I missed this comment, but boy am I glad to have found it now. What an unexpected surprise.
I miss a lot of comments too because I’ve made ten identities or so and I get tired of being one or another and I forget who I am from time to time. Actually, it’s not a lot of comments. It’s mostly “likes” and no comments. But I’ve realized that it’s like grade inflation where “good” means “poor”, and “excellent” means “good” etc… so I think it’s now “like” means I saw it and didn’t care to comment on it because I’m too busy checking the other 1 million like boxes in order to…(I forgot what the purpose of that is, but I know you’re supposed to do that for some reason). Wow, this might appear in a time capsule and my reincarnated soul will be so embarrassed.