What's with all this tolerance crap? It seems everywhere you look, people are priding themselves on accepting others and withholding judgments. I say phooey. And what better way to judge the worth of a human being than by looking at their eating habits?
Yes I'm a callous jerk, but I hold myself to the same standards. Let's take a look at my food-based system of human value via my roommates.
We'll start with Jason, the indifferent one. The perfect sidekick for any crazy night, Jason's food preferences are equally indiscriminate. This is not to say he devours everything he sees—Jason is a man of self-control and rarely overeats.
But, like all humans, Jason is a sinner. His empty pickle jars pollute our fridge. How he downs the last pickle and returns the empty jar is lost on the rest of the universe.
Jason's sinful soul is redeemed by his faithful consumption of Count Chocula cereal. Loyalty to this dying breed demonstrates he is a reliable adult, looking out for the little guy.
You'll never see my roommate Chris eating Count Chocula. Chris maintains his girlish figure by skipping breakfast altogether. Chris is also a cheap bastard. His single daily meal invariably consists of cardboard frozen pizza—six for $10. His beverages are filled with estrogen: The bold taste of coffee offends his delicate palate, and only light beer will do. Chick drinks like Smirnoff Ice elate him, and he depends on frat boys to buy him the expensive elixir.
Chris is redeemed by his willingness to join me on epic journeys for free food. Offer Chris anything free of cost and he replies a familiar ""ooookaaayyyyyy."" I've always wanted a chick for a roommate, and at least I can prostitute Chris for free food.
My third roommate, Josh usually treats himself to extravagant homemade steak dinners—a worthwhile human being. A stomach illness recently sidelined Josh, who now eats less than Paris Hilton.
The way I see it, Josh is like Jesus. An incarnate deity (think steak dinner), he is enduring this struggle with divine poise and will one day return in gluttonous glory to our table.
My last roommate, Andrew, is...unique. Obsessed with protein, his absurd daily intake of pricey supplements clearly exceeds the body's processing capacity—I can assure you Andrew has the most expensive piss on campus.
His mainstays are protein shakes, made in a geriatric blender that shakes the windows. Recently, Andrew discovered 52-packs of eggs (packed with protein!). His baffled looks as he attempts hard-boiling them is like watching monkeys with rock tools. Unable to understand the function of cups—much less comprehend a dishwasher—Andrew brutishly guzzles milk straight from the carton.
Such behavior has led me to conclude Andrew is in fact a Neanderthal. Clearly too far down the chain of evolution, it would be impossible for me to judge him alongside modern humans.
Me? I am far from perfect. My incessant eating exhibits a complete lack of self-control. My diet reads like a candy-store inventory, leading to blood-sugar mood swings that can make me quite an asshole. And I clearly have ADD, evidenced by my half-eaten foodstuffs—I get bored before I even finish a muffin.
All in all, I'm little better than a dumb cow. As I stand in front of the pantry, grazing mindlessly, objects thrown at me are brushed off like flies. And, just as cattle will literally eat themselves to death if given an unlimited food source, I often eat until crippled with pain.
So I'm the most worthless, huh? Well, at least I'm happy—I get pure joy from food. As for my gravest sin, gluttony, I have faith in Josh the Messiah. Until his glorious return, I'll be in my room, hungrily praying a rosary on a candy necklace.
