Go Suck an Egg

Beep. Beep. Boop.

I swipe my debit card in the machine. I use my sharp bear nails to punch in my pin number. The checkout clerk takes an interest in my bag of pre-boiled, pre-peeled eggs.

Okay, okay. You can legitimately judge me on this purchase. I am actually paying a premium because I can’t get my life together enough to boil eggs. Frankly, I judge myself for that.

I’m answering a series of increasingly annoying questions from the machine. (Is 12 dollars all right with you? Not really, but what are you going to do about the price of hummus, amiright? Are you sure you want to put all 12 dollars on your card? Where else would they go? Are you sure? Buzz off, Machine. No really, are you fucking sure?) The clerk is still reading the back of my egg package like it’s the last Twilight book. What is your deal, man?

“The thing about eggs…” (aha! Now we’re getting to it!) “…is they have so much cholesterol. Look at this! Over 200 mg in ONE egg!”

Bitch, please.

He looks me up and down, getting all the information he needs from my appearance. How DARE you, sir? You take one look at me and just assume I need to be schooled about nutrition? Look, I have body-fat reserves; it’s called hibernation. Read a goddamn book. 

Take a look at what you don’t see in that basket: your may-as-well-come-in-a-syringe cookie butter, which wasn’t a part of my life at all until three years ago. (Thank you, Trader Joe.) My basket of hummus and vegetables is fucking health food compared to the sweet, sweet liquid crack that your store invented.

And just who the hell are you to say eggs are unhealthy, anyway? Smarty pants people, like the ones here, here, and oh yeah, here figured out fifteen years ago that eggs aren’t all that bad. Where did you do your research? Oh that’s right, the back of a package with a picture of an egg on it.

Maybe you should read up on eggs and nutrition before you go spouting off. Check out this article. And oh hey, this one. By the way, this one. And this one. Don't mind me. I can wait.

I've got nothing but time.

See what I mean? Turns out eggs don’t cause the plaque building up in your arteries; it’s more like saturated and trans fats. You know, like in that cheeseburger you had for dinner last night. What did I have for dinner? Grasses and berries and a heart-healthy salmon because I AM A MOTHER-FUCKING BEAR.

Like a boss.

Know what else is listed on that label you read so closely? All the nutrients shoved into the egg, like protein, vitamins, riboflavin, and folate, which can help lower the risk for heart disease. Did you see all of that in your careful examination of my food? No? Color me shocked.

But, by all means, sell me some judgment to go with those eggs.

Spoiler

An open letter to the human who spoiled the ending of the Paddington Bear movie:

Did you ever hear about the guy who rented a van with a loudspeaker to drive around town, broadcasting the ending to The Usual Suspects the day it opened in theaters?

No? That’s because I ate him.

What about the jerk who plastered a banner on a major highway overpass, spoiling the ending of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, the day it was released?

Oh, you’ve heard of him? I ate him, too. Just didn’t beat the press to the scene.

Did I ever tell you the story about how my uncle ruined the ending to The Sixth Sense before my mother could see it?

She ate him.

Then, in the process of telling me the story, she spoiled the ending for me.

Now you know why I don’t talk about my mother; I ate her. I don’t recommend bear meat, by the way. Too grizzly.

So, about Paddington. You say I should have read the book already, that it’s on me that I don’t know how the story of Paddington ends? To that I say: GRAAAAWR. I am a well-read bear (you don’t get to be a judge without reading a few books, let me tell you). Perhaps, perhaps, when everyone was out reading Paddington the Bear, I was holed up at home, up to my teeth in law books.

Now, I want to see the movie, dammit. The fact that I didn’t read the book doesn’t give me less of a right to watch the movie, or enjoy the intricate twists and turns of Paddington as he adventures in England. But you’ve ruined the experience for me before I can so much as log in to Fandango.

I have just one question left for you. Do you think you’ll taste better à la tartare or au poivre?

Judgement

Judgement, it would seem, is out.

Acceptance, along with the skinny jean, is in. Neither one is a good decision.

Wait, was that too judgmental? Pardon me while I keep a lookout for the judgement police. You know who they are: people who speak in soft tones and walk around muttering such soothing mantras as, "Live and let live," or "Before you criticize a man, walk a mile in his shoes." They're ready to swoop in with a disapproving frown, perhaps even a cluck of their tongues to signify that you have Judged. These well-meaning souls would have you believe that to judge is to impart your own egocentric world view on someone else. Everyone deserves the opportunity to go through life as they wish, without fear of our judgement at their different-ness.

Bull.

Many situations merit our judgement. They are positively begging for it. Unfortunately, all us human beings have to share one planet, one giant communal living space. And the more humans there are, the more cramped that space can seem. While a certain amount of letting others live their lives in peace must occur for us all to get along, so should some basic practices of consideration for others. You're not alone on this Earth, so stop acting like it.

Or you may just find yourself in front of Judgey Bear. And Judgey Bear will Judge YOU.