Were I to vomit at the end of every sentence, and twist my face into the very mask of inimical loathing as I spat out each word, I could not convey how perfectly weary I am of discussions about carbs.
At one time, they were carbohydrates. Perhaps you remember. Life was eminently more enjoyable then. A potato was just a potato, though sometimes it was French fried. Bread was warm and wholesome. Ales and stouts could be hoisted with boisterous impunity. And so long as you remember the Aristotelian adage, ‘all things in moderation,’ none were subject to rebuke.
But times change, and Aristotle gives way to St. Augustine – ‘total abstinence is easier then perfect moderation.’ And with thorough Atkinsinian excess, I can scarcely nibble a crouton without reproach.
“Do you know how many carbs are in a slice of pizza?”
“Many people don’t know that wine, while less than beer, still contains carbs.”
“So how many carbs did you intake today?”
“I’ve heard that a single a potato contains enough carbs to turn a 40lb. waif into a corpulent behemoth, and causes foul humours and abstractedness to boot.”
“It’s the high carb diet of the Gaelics that causes their inherent pugnacity. I read a thesis on it somewhere.”
“Virgin’s who abstain from carbs will birth golden-haired and blue-eyed children when they marry.”
And amidst this wealth of compelling information, so freely and thoughtfully offered, I say: Cease your idle and addle-pated gibbering. I have no need to be awash in the half understood factoids you so lubriciously baste yourself in. Fucking shut-up, and let me eat my bread in peace.
