WARNING: THIS ARTICLE CONTAINS GRAPHIC IMAGES AND CHALLENGING IDEAS.
I have never believed in food allergies. Of course, I understand: in certain rare, extreme circumstances, they exist. There's always some kid who turns into a purple tornado every time he eats raspberries. Every time a raspberry touches his lips, he breaks into hives, becomes bulletproof, unnaturally strong, and can suddenly fly. Not only does he rescue dogs and kittens from trees, but he infiltrates organized crime rings and brings Christmas presents down the chimneys of good little kids all over the world, just from eating raspberries.
Maybe it's the superhero kid I'm thinking of, and not the allergic kid.
Unlike the superhero kid, maybe the allergic kid is a myth.
I have been saying for years, the Somalian word for food allergy is, "NOT HUNGRY." When a Somalian kid complains about his dinner, and tells his parents he can't eat it because he's allergic to discontinued airline peanuts (a Somalian food staple), the words he uses are "not hungry."
The reason for this is simple: With rare exceptions, most "food allergies" are actually food preferences. Someone who is "lactose intolerant" simply doesn't like dairy products, for whatever reason. And the reasons might be valid.
It doesn't matter. When faced with starvation on the side of the road, and a 2-gallon bucket of raspberry-flavored bacterial fermentation paste, only a schizophrenic demoniac would choose starvation.
In like manner, "gender identity" issues are manufactured problems that have been chosen by people who have enough to eat. It's a point that bears repeating, while we're talking to people who still take for granted that they'll always have enough to eat. To prove it, let's play a game of "pin the gender identity on the Holodomor victim." Let's look at the emaciated half-corpses of people lying on the side of the road, and see if we can tell where they belong on the "gender spectrum."
Before we do that, however, let's read about some of the food allergies the Ukrainians were privileged enough to suffer under the Stalinist regime in the 1930s.
From an article titled "Children's Cruelty Testimony:"
Oleksa Sonipul was 10 in 1933 and lived in a village in northern Ukraine. She said by the beginning of that year, famine was so widespread people had been reduced to eating grass, tree bark, roots, berries, frogs, birds, and even earthworms.
Nothing like a dinner of tree bark, frogs, and earthworms to make one long for the days of whole milk and airline peanuts. I wonder if they cooked the frogs. What would you do, if you were lying in bed contemplating where you fit into the gender spectrum like these young, underprivileged social-media addicts, and had to eat a frog? Would you bother cooking it, or would you tear into it while it was still alive, chewing the squirming creature as it squirts blood and slime and guts all over your face and hands while you're lying weak and motionless at the gates of death, only minutes from eternity? Don't look at me. Here they are. Ask them:
Far more importantly, where are the drag queens? Are you trying to tell me that these kids were so oppressed that they didn't even get to attend a drag show before a dinner of reconstituted vegan puke coughed up from the bird-guts of their emaciated mothers before they died?
Tragic.
What about this guy? Was he gay? More important than whether or not he was being starved to death and spent the last days of his life begging some "invisible sky genie" to save his soul in a state of utter mortal terror, was whether or not he had the time, money, and self-righteous vacuous personal space in his heart, mind, and soul to wonder whether or not he was a gender-fluid attack helicopter before he died.
So what do you think? Queer-curious Fentanyl freak? Or privileged cis-gender oppressor?
Hard to tell. Ukrainians are white, after all.
How unspeakably inconvenient.
While American parents angrily, defiantly drag their kids to parades in which aberrant perverts prance down the street in their underwear, Ukrainian parents in the 1930s had to actually wonder if their kids were transsexual Christmas-tree elves.
Can you imagine having to actually wonder that? Never being able to actually know what your kids' pronouns were going to be for the day?
We really have come a long way. A long way down?
No way. This is progress. Onward and upward we go, flying like single-use bottle rockets into the dead-end street of problems we still get to choose, while we still can.
Ain't life grand?
Nevermind if the gig is almost up. Those who don't know history can't possibly be doomed to repeat it. How can I repeat a song that isn't even on my playlist?
Idiot.
That kid is giving me some terrible vibes. She probably has no idea how to masturbate. Quick, somebody, please. Put a dildo in her rations. I can't stand it anymore.
Anyway, I'm out of time. The guy at Starbucks got my order wrong. I have to go complain. I simply can't tolerate the way food makes me feel. It's like my digestive system is all tethered to this material world, or something. Well, I'm going to make sure my kids don't live under the same oppressive regime of material needs that I had to endure when I was a child. Meat tastes like patriarchy. We eat vegan menstrual cereal instead, as a faux-enlightened means of opening a totally non-gratuitous dialogue about "women's" health concerns with our gender-prefabricated, socially-conforming 8-year-old. Because there's nothing more appetizing than a bowl of uterus cereal that turns the milk into tomato soup. Except some bloody tomato cereal soup garnished with frogs, earthworms, and GIANT MEXICAN SCORPIONS.
Yummy.
We're not turning an entire generation into angry, mentally-disabled misogynists or anything. And even if we are, it's good for the earth. Imagine how crunchy our periods will be when we garnish them with giant Mexican scorpions.
Why did I have kids in the first place?
I'm obviously insane.
I wonder what my problem is?
Well, who cares. My disconsolate rage trying really hard to be happiness is the main thing. To the coffee shop for another optional struggle against the white man, before civilization collapses to the point I won't be able to masturbate, or bitch about anything. That will suck. Perhaps I'll even achieve another Pyrrhic victory over nothing while I'm out. Surely there's a non-compliant mask rebel I can follow around the store, which is still full of food incidentally (though not as much as before, thanks to Christianity and guns). Surely there's a God-fearing white man I can nag into a state of perpetual, disconsolate self-deimprovement. Misery loves company, after all.
#Omigosh. I almost forgot we were playing a game of "Pin the Gender Identity on the Holomodor Victim." Well, if it's a game, there's only one acceptable outcome:
They're all gay, and I win. You may kiss my rings before I'm forced to pawn them for frogs and earthworms in a burning world full of angry, misogynistic teenagers who will toss my hated corpse into the gaping maw of the bloody garbage chasm just outside of town.
It will be symbolic of the way I've destroyed and discarded their future,
but all those heavy, negative thoughts will be lost on me.
Oh well. It was great while it lasted. All those optional problems we used to have. All the time we wasted arguing and crying over nothing. The buffet of whining upon which we gorged our bloated souls and egos. Power is a hell of a drug.
Anyway, the manager awaits.
See you in hell,
Karen
