I’m convinced that an evil agribusiness conglomerate (not sure what conglomerate means) injects kids’ food with a chemical that activates the brain’s pleasure center. I know this is anecdotal, but whenever I gorge on Teddy Grahams, I feel like I don’t need to take my Wellbutrin that night. The yellow powdery cheddar cocaine that comes in a box of Macaroni and Cheese could cure the world of sadness. Sometimes I rub a little on my gums and stay up all night vacuuming toys.
Of course, when adults eat like children, they get fat and die. Sorry to bring it down, but as good as “Pizza Bites” make me feel mentally, the rest of my body is huddled in the corner of a prison cell begging for the warden to stop abusing it. And listen, before you get all Whole Foods on me, we feed our kids vegetables and that other stuff too.
It’s amazing that I’ve only gained ten pounds over the last few years. Have you had Trix Yogurt? It’s like creamed Nerds and therefore impossible to stop eating until it’s gone, at which point I start maniacally laughing like a 1940’s movie villain. To be honest, I never even brought the Trix Yogurt home. I ate it all in the car because I didn’t want my wife to see it.
I can hear you. You’re saying, “Jason, don’t buy that food.” Thanks, Jillian Michaels, but I’m a human being with severe impulse control issues who’s drawn to packaging with bright primary colors.
This is what makes kids’ birthday parties so deadly. We probably go to one every week, and they always have a beautiful spread of pizza and potato chips. Who are these people that can look at pizza and not eat it? Did they come here on a big ship from outerspace? Perhaps even more confusing are the people who eat one piece and stop like they have a black belt in telling themselves “No.” Once I start eating pizza, I don’t stop until someone comments on how much pizza I’ve eaten. “Wow, four pieces, eh?” “Ooops, ha.. Yea, I’ll totally stop. Did your kid get any yet?”
No matter how many times I’ve been through it, I always forget there’s going to be cake. Usually ice cream cake. I don’t care how full you are of pizza, saying no to ice cream cake is psychopathic behavior. Do you know how long I would have to be on the treadmill to burn off 4 slices of pizza and two pieces of ice cream cake? Forget it, I don’t want to know. Is it more than a whole day?
It’s my parents fault. They never let me have terrible food when I was a kid. When I would visit my friend, Joe McLead, whose mom always had the cupboards stocked with Ho Ho’s and Capri Suns, I would sit there stuffing my face as he watched in morbid curiosity like he’d just brought me home from the jungle. “I can’t believe your mom lets you eat this stuff,” I would say, as chocolatey flakes flew from my mouth. I’m still that kid, and simply can’t have that type of food around the house. But, for my children’s sake, we keep some so they don’t develop the same pathological delight for delicious crap that comes in shiny wrappers.
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