As I emerged from the ringworm infected jock strap with a rail that is the NYC subway system, barely avoiding boiling in a pool of my own putrid sweat as I dodged flying cockroaches like your step dad avoiding child support, I spotted a ray of hope for a chubby guy like myself: FREE ICE CREAM. There is a God, I thought, and he’s most certainly diabetic with an unhealthy relationship with Ribwiches and mayo, not necessarily in that order. Or he is Paula Deen. Like a recent GED recipient drawn to Donald Trump, I was mesmerized by the prospect of 100’s of free, empty calories and dairy on a night with 97% humidity, like only an alum of Camp Hope can be.
Never having been a fan of fine print and an ardent naysayer of “too good to be true”, I took the clipboard provided by the proprietor of this converted UPS truck sent from heaven and began feverishly scribbling down personal information more recklessly than your scam-prone grandmother. Deciding which flavor I wanted to help me reach the pinnacle of “obesity” and leave the mediocrity that is “overweight” behind occupied my thoughts as I handed in a clip board and shouted “3 scoops of cookie dough” (knowing full well this was over the generally accepted “free” sample limit, but hoping the able (dad) bodied distributor of dreams could hook up a fellow mouth breather up). He obliged.
The first bite was nothing short of mediocre. The kind of mediocrity that is expected of the New York Jets. You know, the kind that is expected of you by your boss. And then I saw it:
If the Economists ploy was to get me to subscribe to their SAT-word infused long reads about fiscal policy in a narco state that is a decline in EDM’s popularity away from default by incenting me with bug infused ice cream, they were sorely mistaken. In fact the only thing I want to read less than what translates roughly to the Wall Street Journal as edited by Neil Degrasse Tyson and narrated by Ben Stein is nudie mags without the milk wagons. I’m looking at you, Playboy. What I’m saying is that unless you’re into playing bridge with Alan Greenspan while listening to “Sounds of Northeastern Birds” on tape as brought to you by Sharper Image, you’re going to want to avoid The Economist.
But enough about my intellectual capacity, or lack thereof, and back to the issue at hand: ruining a perfectly good cup of ice cream by putting bugs in it.
Listen I get it, maybe in Namibia they need to eat bugs to fuel their blood diamond civil wars, but we live in a country where I can have a high school dropout deliver duck confit tacos and fried Oreos at 3 AM using only emojis. Call me “first world”, but I like my bugs experiencing genocide at the hands of the Terminix man or being melted with a magnifying glass by a lone wolf shooter in the making. Despite what entomologists might argue, bugs serve no purpose on earth other than shutting down my favorite sushi place for health code violations or being the reason I don’t go into a room for several days.
You: But Tyler, bugs are an affordable source of protein in an overpopulated world.
Me: If we start eating bugs, where does the madness stop? If Forbes started giving away free burritos with dog meat in it, would that be OK? First it’s Airbud chorizo with a side of medium rare Lassy, but then what? Are we going to go all Donner Party (of two) on eachother? It’s a slippery slope my friends.
There’s a reason the final challenge of Fear Factor was always eating 36 balsamic glazed tarantulas: it’s fucking terrible. That $100,000 check Joe Rogan just handed you should just about cover the stomach pumping and 10 years of intensive psychological therapy to overcome your arachnophobia. Eating insects is more Un-American than taking a dump on the National Mall and wiping with the Declaration of Independence. We are raised to hate bugs, and if there’s one thing that Americans hate more than ISIS and Obamacare, it’s change. So unless you’re stranded on a desert island without a Bear Grylls chance at survival, or the Travel channel is paying you 7 figures to host a show about eating spider eggs out of a monkey’s ass in Timbuktu, bugs should strictly be reserved for overweight adolescents that are cyber bullied and whose only friends live in their ant farm.
Repeat after me: bugs are not food. To quote my favorite, stereotypically sassy and comically overweight black woman’s: “NOT UP IN HERE!”