life - gluten - dairy = pointless hellscape

My wife is not eating dairy or gluten. I'm like: "You can pry cheese out of my cold, dead fingers. And if you think I'm gonna eat that gluten-free shit you keep bringing in the house, you can think again. That shit MAY be suitable as insulating material for the goddamn garage, but it is in no way fit for human consumption. I'll be over here eating real food, if you need me."  - Fed Up

Dear FU:

Amen, brother. These females with their self-denial and their portion control and their balanced meals can suck it. Do they have longer life expectancy? They do. Is it a purposeless grinding nightmare to attain it? It is. Is it better to have a stick of butter in one hand and a well-marbled leg of mutton in the other, alternating bites, than it is to purse your lips an choke down a rice cake? You better believe it is. What is the aftermath of a mutton-and-butter repast? A fucking nap. Best goddamn nap you ever had, in fact. A nap that comes from having a gut full of meat, and the sense of fucking achievement that can only come from having eaten something as big around as an adult house cat.

By contrast, what is the aftermath of staring dead-eyed into the middle distance as an unsalted wad of steamed kale slime-rapes your esophagus? You're fucking pissy and critical for the rest of the goddamn day. That fiber-rich and flavor-free fucking pile of sodden and totally unappealing conscientiousness - does it undo that self-loathing that prompted you to eat that stringy green miasma in the first fucking place? Fuck no. Makes it worse, doesn't it? Because you hate every motherfucking mouthful. And you hate the goddamn self-image that prompts you to eat that joyless and gritty bullshit that belongs in the bottom of gerbil cage. And you hate the fucking societal and media pressures that have piled onto you since you were a girl that have made you more likely to stick your tongue in a live light socket than eat a slice of cheesecake.

And you hate the weird farts that kale and all the other members of that leafy green coven pump out, that turn your ass into a miserable-smelling calliope. And you hate your shiny-faced husband because he is eating a basket of batter-dipped Slim Jims deep-fried in ham sweat, and sucking down Twinkie puree through a bacon straw. Just rocking back and forth like fucking Rain Man giggling softly.

And MAN is he a fat sack of shit, but you know what is the most GALLING? He doesn't give a fuck. He is gleefully powering down what he calls Coma Pie - store-bought graham cracker pie crust floating in a bucket of piping hot french onion soup, layer of mashed up Hostess Pies (3-5 is good - mix flavors: get creative!), layer of garlic mashed potatoes (like half a tub from the deli counter at the market oughtta do 'er), layer of busted-up Chunky Bars, can of corned beef hash, a fried eagle, a brick and half of cheddar - and you're like "how I'm gonna melt all that?" - that is a great, if ungrammatical question - answer? two quarts of scalding hot nacho sauce, a Hickory Farms Snout-n-Gristle® gift basket, half a DQ Blizzard (any variety), shit-ton of curly fries, whole mess of Nilla Wafers, can of them French Fried Onion sticks, tub of Cool Whip, whatever leftovers look pretty good still, topped with a sausage McGriddle.

And nobody EXPECTS him to give a cold ferret shit about how his pitiful lard-ass looks. So he fucking doesn't. At all. He grows more repulsive by the day and always has grin on that blubbery fucking puss of his, glistening above his goddamn collar like an uncooked dumpling dipped in K-Y. He's got nothing at ALL to be fucking happy about and LOOK at him - eyelids at half mast, unfocused gaze, fucking spit bubbles in corner of his slack fucking mouth all the goddamn time, and he's as contented as a retard manatee floating through his goddamn life without a fucking shred of initiative.

And you know something? You're absolutely justified to hate that sack of crap you married, and the system that persecutes you for having a human-shaped body, and lets him skate away clean, and your passive-aggressive shit-snarl of a mother for forcing you to think about this shit. You know what is a mortal lock that is guaranteed NEVER to fix any of this mobius strip of hatred? Fucking kale. Have yourself a grilled cheese. The secret ingredient? Fucking gluten.