|
Kill
da Wabbit
Okay, so I have this theory. I was taking a poop at
work the other day, and it occurred to me while I was chewing
on a piece of deer jerky. (It's called loose association;
stay with me.) I'm chewing on the jerky and I think
about how good and salty it is and how my boss and this
other lady, La Brendita, will never know because they're
dieting hardcore. Then I think, "Dieting. That's
whack." I figure there must be a lot of
people who think that because there are a lot of fat people. According
to statistics we're the fattest country, like, ever. Why
is it that I think to myself as I pinch one? And
that's when it occurred to me…
It's Wal-Mart's fault. Like I said, loose association. But
dig this - way back a long time ago when the cavemen
were roaming the earth in the 1800s, you had to catch your
own food, right? This means a lot of chasing around prehistoric
squirrels and rabbits and such. I figure that
couldn't have been easy. Those fuckers are quick, yo. Even
if you're the fastest caveman around, you're not going to
catch one of those wily bastards on the first try. Even
if you do, one little varmint ain't gonna feed no big burly
caveman and his cavewoman and cavekids. Imagine you
had to spend all day chasing around a box of frozen chicken
fingers and that's all you and your family had to eat. Whole
lot of exercise. Not too much eatin'.
So I figure even stupid cavemen didn't do that too long. They
decided they needed to chase bigger animals, word? They
would have decided on something a little slower. I'm
thinking something that would like to take naps, say, a
Sabretooth Tiger. Now this means you either have to
gang up on it and kill it with your collective bare hands
or you have to carry a weapon. At this point all they
probably got were big rocks and shit. Either way, still
a lot of exercise. Then you gotta drag that big-ass
cat home to the cave after braining it with that big-ass
rock. You gotta de-fur it and tear its meat off the
bones. Don't even get me started on rubbing those goddamn
sticks together to get the fire rollin'. No matter
what, a lotta damn exercise. Then one day one of these cave
types trips over his big ass rock and impales himself on
the rib cage of last night's dinner. His cavebuddies
find him and that gives them an idea.  If
that can kill a caveman, it could kill that big ass cat. Johnny
Caveman likes this idea. Better weapons equal less
exercise. Before you know it, Johnny Caveman is Sir
Johnny of Man with a sword, which begets Sheriff Johnny
Man with his six-shooter. Each one having to do less
and less exercise all the time. Even those squirrels
and rabbits are no match. Next thing you know, Mr.
Man decides what we need is a great, damn big store with
everything you could ever possibly need in the same room. A
place where everybody goes and ambles slowly through the
aisles, calmly picking their pre-killed meals, then meandering
to the front to stand in line and wait and wait and wait
and do little to no exercise. Wal-Mart. Destroyer of
exercise. Breeder of fat folk.
Then I flushed, washed my hands and had another piece of
that kick ass jerky.
If
any corporate types from Wal-Mart would like to chat with
Mr. Branum, e-mail tadd@thefootnote.com. It's
much nicer than a lawsuit.
|
|
|
