I Left My Heart on Avery Island

May 30, 2018

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I've had my blood tested for several things now. As a Type 2 diabetic, I'm supposed to check my blood sugar levels several times a day. I figure I already know it's too high, so I really don't need to prick my finger to know I'm totally doing things wrong. It's just depressing to know just how badly I'm managing my diabetes, so I tell myself the three danishes I had for breakfast today were good for me because they had apples in them. My wife thinks I eat flax dust and prune resin for breakfast, so don't rat me out, you little shit! Going to the nutrition school was painful for both the instructor and myself. I was stunned to learn that essentially, if it tastes good, as a diabetic, you definitely can't have it. Don't try and sell me on the versatility of zucchini. Zucchini is good for one thing and that's buying it, so you think you are eating healthy, and then throwing away the mushy cucumber wannabe a couple of weeks later because you literally have no use for it. I mean putting zucchini on a beef and cheddar sandwich is one step away from fascism. Even things that aren't sweet screw you over. You know what has a ton of sugar in it? Rice! Ummm...I don't know if you guys know this, but I'm sorta Asian. So, limiting rice intake for me is essentially telling me I shouldn't eat food any more. I used to be really embarrassed to eat rice. When Dave Chappelle talked about eating fried chicken, I had to uncomfortably laugh, because I feel the same way about rice. It's just soooo damn perfect as a base for anything else you're eating!  Pretending I hated rice for so many years was a pretty immature thing to do and the only person who suffered was myself. It's poetic justice now that I'm finally okay with eating rice, I can't have it anymore.

 

I've had my blood alcohol content tested before as well, and the results have led me to believe I'm a superhero. I'm not even kidding. Just understand I'm having trouble designing my costume. Also, Breathalyzer Boy seems a little underwhelming. Fighting crime by blowing well below .08 no matter how much I've drank won't even get me on the waiting list at Professor Xavier's school. Maybe Deadpool would like to have me join his merry little band of misfits. Speaking of fighting crime, that reminds me of something a buddy of mine and I used to discuss. My friend, Todd, and I used to joke decades ago we should apply to be SEC (Securities and Exchange Commission) agents. As a federal agent, you are entitled to have a firearm and a badge. We thought it would be amusing to randomly show up at crime scenes having nothing to do with insider trading and take over the crime scene. Can you imagine a 5-alarm fire suspected arson case, and rolling up to the fiery inferno are two SEC agents? Unbelievably, this was AFTER I stopped smoking pot. Todd and I tried to avoid work as much as possible. Todd used to work for a brokerage firm by the name of Dean Witter. I worked for another brokerage firm, PaineWebber. Todd had a douche bag branch manager who made him make 200 phone calls a day. The tracker never counted what number he dialed, just how many times the phone would connect out. Todd learned to check the weather hotline multiple times a day, but you can only hear the robotic voice state "partly cloudy" so many times before you start wondering if maybe you picked the wrong vocation. We figured out a better plan to help him reach his daily sales quota. We bought the game Battleship. He took one set and I took the other. We would call each other several times a day announcing our moves. The phone would ring in my office and I would answer, "Thank you for calling PaineWebber, how may be of service?" All I would hear would be, "F3." I would slide my bottom desk drawer open, look at my board, and say "miss." Often the response was "shit" and then click. Todd got lots of praise from his branch manager for exceeding his daily sales call quotas. I think this is when I learned that management is just fucking clueless. Anyway, back to the topic at hand, bloodstreams.

 

If there is anything excessively high in my bloodstream, it's Tabasco sauce. I love Tabasco sauce. I put it on almost everything. I put it on top of gojuchang. I put it on top of sriracha. I put it on top of Tabasco. My wife has learned to carry those little tiny bottles of Tabasco with her at all times just in case I'm in a shady establishment that doesn't have Tabasco. Tabasco is made of only three ingredients. vinegar, salt, and peppers. That's it. Disappointed? How can something so simple have such depth of flavor? The best news is I can have as much Tabasco as I want! I actually have amazing blood pressure, so the extra sodium isn't that big of a deal. No one has ever crashed a car from driving under the influence of Tabasco, so I'm totally okay operating heavy machinery souped up on McIlhenny's finest! I want to get back to the simplicity of Tabasco. You ever find that the more complex something is, the worse it is for you? A television is incredibly complicated, and if you spend all your time watching it your mind will turn to mush. A book has paper, ink, and stitching. If you spend all your time reading, you'll end up significantly smarter. Going to the gym can be complex. Walking is not only free, but it literally involves putting one foot in front of the other while staying upright. Repeat as needed. That's it. Try tearing a muscle walking. Not bloody likely, mate.

 

We live in a complex society. Advancement means things get more and more intricate. We tend to eschew the simple for the new trend. Hot sauces abound with Etruscan garlic and scorpion ghost peppers, but the simplicity of tabasco has stood the test of time. I advocate going back to simpler times, simpler ingredients, and simpler activities. You don't need to catch Pokémon all over the city. You can just sit down and talk to a friend. For me, a good buddy, some tabasco, and a conversation about how diabetes sucks sounds like a great evening. Drinking a fermented concoction of water, barley, and yeast is the frosting on the cake for me. Just don't be a jackass and tell me how much sugar is in the scotch. A punch in the face is really simple, too.

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