Is there some clever connection about titling an article entitled?
Let me clear my throat here for a second. I will psychically fight all of the old timers complaining about the evolution of English grammar. People making comments like, “Webster’s decided to modify the original meaning for the word perfunctory to account for post modern American colloquialisms. We should be ashamed.”
Here’s a thought – your life sucks.
Everything changes. If you can’t keep your feet moving then prepared to be run over like the Siamese twins trying to compete in track and field that you are. Because here’s the thing – that same person isn’t complaining about the innovations in medicine or the adaptations of agriculture or the amendments of the constitution to deal with constantly changing times. No, because that would make their argument reasonable. What they are doing, though, is attaching themselves like Greenpeace psychopaths to the one thing that makes them better than everyone else, their command of the English language that was created by a bunch of washed up old assholes. Game is over. To loosely quote Kurt Vonnegut – fuck you, semicolons. We get it, you went to college.
The soundtrack in my head plays a song called Is This Real? all the time. When I’m talking to someone and all the sudden I notice their weird fucking eyes I wonder, Is This Real? Sometimes I ask them that very question. “What are you talking about?” Never mind. It’s just paranoia. Honestly, I had no idea that nevermind was two words. My poor fucking journal without spell check all these years my grandkids (also two words?!) are going to pick it up one day and think their serial killer grandfather was completely illiterate. But that son of a bitch told one hell of a story, didn’t he?
So it was no surprise today at dinner when there was a small green object trying to get my attention from down near my salad container that I assumed it was just another mild hallucination and I thought This Definitely Isn’t Real. But enough was enough. The thing wouldn’t stop moving. But what could it be. Salads don’t move. And then BAM, little fucking Jerry the Caterpillar doing his push ups in preparation for his long journey to freedom.
“That’s a fucking caterpillar.”
After taking a 6 second video in which I struggled to find the right combination of funny and sincere words for a viral post I walked the salad toward the customer service desk.
What’s important to note here is my initial reaction. When I saw the green little guy. I was outraged. Because that’s what you do when something like that happens to you. You become outraged like Nancy Kerrigan. “Why me?!?!?” And then you think about what you can get out of it. Can I sue them? Because you’re owed something. Because we’re all entitled little bitches waiting for someone to do us wrong so we can throw the flag we’ve been harboring since the first fat fuck took our lunch money.
I paused for a second. Thought about what it all meant. It’s a caterpillar. He keeps the aphids off the greens. Without him there would be no salad. I ate a salad. That means that shit was fresh. And Whole Foods actually wasn’t trying to ruin my life by reminding me of the time in 3rd grade when I was eating a delicious sandwich and my friend pulled out his mason jar that happened to contain a praying mantis that also happened to be eating another bug alive at that moment. I can still taste the puke in my throat from that one.
Maybe I’ll never eat another salad from WF again, but it wasn’t anyone’s fault. No one owes me anything.
(but fuck you if you’re in a wheelchair and ask for my exit row aisle seat, I have anxiety)