Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Let Me Tell You About My Milk


Excuse me. I’m just in the seat right next to you? 7B? Thanks. Don’t worry. I’m not one of those people who’s going to try and chew your ear off the whole flight. I get it. I read the blogs. I’m not some idiot who’s going on and on about my sister’s kids out in Oklahoma. I don’t even have a sister.

What is that, Diet Coke? Wow. I remember those days. Crazy. No energy. Tired all the time. Man, that was a long time ago. Back before I discovered milk. I know what you’re thinking. You probably think I’m talking about regular milk, but I’m not. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’ve been around the block a few times. No one’s perfect. Now, let me tell you about my milk, the right milk.

You look worried. You must be lactose intolerant. Just relax. Milk is about so much more than dairy. I mean when I was a kid, everyone drank regular milk. It’s just what we did. We didn’t know any better. If you’re thirsty, drink some milk. If you’re hungry, drink some old milk. Break your arm, rub some milk on it. These days though, I don’t know anyone who drinks cow milk that isn’t homeless. Who buys the stuff? Moms with postpartum depression who eat KFC and think about driving their minivans into the ocean? Why do these women need so much milk? Where are they putting it all? Can’t they make their own?

Anyway, after my youthful bout with regular milk, I moved on to rice milk. I had just started college and thought I knew a thing or two. It came in a box. I could drink it on my skateboard. And it tasted like cereal milk. I was young, full of hope, thought I was going to grow up and become a writer. Then one sad day you realize rice milk is basically just candy water and no one is going to care about your creative writing degree when you graduate. People who still drink rice milk have to be the most delusional people in the world. Wake up. Look around. The world is moving, man. You might as well melt Jolly Ranchers down and drink that. Do they not care about their health? What kind of job do they think they will get? Editorial assistant at Esquire? Get real. You don’t have the hairline for it.

I’m not begrudging your nutritional choices. But I would like to pass on some of my nutritional experience. Then I’ll leave you to that Wi-Fi network you’ve been trying to join for the last five minutes. I promise.

So, anyway, I changed my major to philosophy and started drinking hemp milk. I honestly only started drinking it because it was made out of weed. And I thought weed was really cool at the time. Plus, all the omegas and stuff are good for you. Unfortunately, I fell in with a bad crowd. Starting doing a ton of drugs. Acid mostly. Lost myself on a journey to the spirit world. Woke up one day face down on the Venice boardwalk with seagull feathers in my hair, knee deep in some kind of commune. Well, cult. Looking back it was clearly a cult. Half my life savings invested in a vintage school bus that was supposed to take people back and forth to the desert. Made a lot of sense to me at the time. I lost everything. Hemp milk. Look it up. Dangerously charismatic crowd drinking that nonconformist nectar.

Yup. Not a great time in my life, but not nearly as embarrassing as the soy milk that followed. And don’t get me started on soy milk. Like, think of how embarrassed you are that in the 90s you thought Friends and Frasier were really good TV. You didn’t know what you know now about Breaking Bad and Game of Thrones, right? OK, imagine that feeling and then multiply it by ten. That’s what soy milk is. I see dudes drinking it and am like why do you want to be a woman? I see women drinking it and am like why do you want cancer? It's somehow the lamest and most dangerous milk at the same time. Probably the only person left ordering soy milk is my ex-wife. She loved that stuff. She and Jerry probably drink a ton of it in that stupid jacuzzi tub she made me buy. Fucking Jerry.

Sorry. Was I touching you? I just like to use both armrests. I think I have big elbows.

I was pretty depressed after the divorce. I don’t know. I started going to farmer’s markets to meet women and accidentally got into raw milk. But I mean, come on. Civilized people don't drink unpasteurized milk full of lumps and bugs. Leave that to the Paleo people. Caveman idiots. People who think cellphones will give them brain cancer. Paranoid weirdos. Truthers. Birthers. Not really the kind of people you want to date. People with problems. People who won’t return your calls even though they said they had a good time playing miniature golf and want to see you again.

No thanks, no pretzels for me. I’ll take some nuts if you have those. I do love nuts. Cashews are my fav--oh, cashew milk! I almost forgot. Look, you can’t have a whole glass of cashew milk or your brain will blow up. You have to be so deep into the non-dairy rabbit hole to grab cashew milk. You’ve exhausted every possible option. Like my asshole dad, who finally went to China because he’d been everywhere else. Not like, oh, maybe I should take my son someplace I already went. Or camping. Or anywhere. Maybe I should spend four seconds with my son and make sure he’s OK. No, I’ll just go to China because that’s the last place on earth I haven’t taken my selfish self. That’s cashew milk. It’s my China.

Then there are the fringe milks. The small timers hardly worth mentioning. Coconut milk? Novelty. Oat Milk? Trying too hard. Breast milk? I wish. Apple milk? Get real. That’s just juice. Flax milk? Ah. Yes. For people who think almond milk got too big. That almond milk sold out.

Which is really what I’ve been getting at all along. It’s all about almond milk. Anyone who drinks almond milk has read at least two books that aren’t the Bible. When you see a lady in the store with her cart full of additive-free, unsweetened almond milk it’s just total squirt town for me. It’s a very, very hot milk and that woman knows it. She knows what’s up. She probably has a tumblr devoted to the act of making her own almond milk at home. And, yes, she’s probably aware of the sexually explicit thoughts you’re having about her as she does her shopping but is comfortable with it because she knows I respect her and will care for her forever and ever. We will be so happy. Almond milk is the answer. Almond milk is going to make everything OK. No more hurt. No more crying.

Are you looking for the call attendant button? You keep turning the light on and off and I don’t really see what that’s doing except making everyone think you’re weird.

OK. I’ve rambled on long enough. The point is, I’ve done my homework. You don’t get to be the kind of informed milk guru that I am without being thrown out of a few Whole Foods. Maybe I was “loitering” in front of the milk section? So what. How else am I going to meet the perfect woman? Who else will I marry? How else will I ever taste breast milk, the holy grail of milks? I was raised on formula. You probably can’t tell. I don’t think people can tell. Can you?

Anyway, I’ll be milking my new wealth of knowledge for all it’s worth. Haha. Little joke. Well, looks like we’re almost ready for takeoff. I hope they have almond milk in Australia. Is this your first time?

No comments:

Post a Comment