Christmas is a time for parties. Sometimes you’ll attend one with undesirables. A couple weeks ago, I was at a festive potluck. A waif-man struggled in with a big jug filled with red slop. I’d already had a few drinks, was feeling the holiday cheer, and couldn’t resist initiating the following exchange:
“So what’s that?” I politely inquired.
“Um, it’s vegan,” he replied.
I quipped: “Wow, so you ground up a vegan midget? That must take a huge food processor.”
He retorted with bewildered contempt: “No….it’s gazpacho.”
“Poor little, guy! And he thought he was coming here for a better life. Was he your gardener?”
Punch line delivered. I was able to elicit a few muffled laughs, only from the men. That was outnumbered by evil glares. I’d gotten a bit too comfortable deep in enemy territory. Still, the disgust of the party-goers for me was nothing compared to the revulsion I felt for whatever slop was in that jug. I shuttered as three letters flashed before my eyes. It happened in a quick sequence beginning with H and ending in V.
Later on, the missus went to ladle some of this for herself. With the deft reflex that desperation can bestow, I brushed her hand away. “Are you crazy? You’ll be on retroviral drugs for the rest of your life!” I exclaimed under my breath, attempting to conceal my panic with a smile. “You’re embarrassing me,” she muttered. I probably saved her life that night.
Prevention is the best cure. Eating anything made by a potential walking viral vector is just asking for trouble. Long before science developed to its current level, lepers got sent to colonies so the people around them didn’t suffer the same fate. This wasn’t done out of cruelty, just the practical necessity of halting the spread of disease. Common sense, it got us through the millennia to here but no further it seems.
They want you to eat, like the Church wanted everyone to receive Communion. I absolutely despise the sick morality that prevails in our age. For instance, last year in Toronto there was a campaign called “Break Bread, Smash Stigma.” Participants could savor dishes prepared by an all-HIV staff, relishing their own degenerate self-satisfaction in the process. Just in time for Christmas 2018, the same “charity” opened up an all-HIV massage clinic.
I’m not sure where this all heads from here, but back during the Pleistocene that whole place was compressed deep beneath the Laurentide Ice Sheet.
Would that be what it takes to turn things around?
2019 is feeling pretty warm, though.