If You Are Gluten Free You Are A Goddamn Pansy, Sorry Not Sorry

There are very few people in my life whom I actually enjoy being around. Small talk and idle chit-chat are not my forte, so when someone pops up who isn’t a boring bag of dicks and can carry a conversation past “So what do you do for a living?” (which I can’t do, so really friends serve as a fix for my personal shortcomings), I generally try to make friends and keep him or her around. One such person is my friend, “Karen.”

Karen is great. Karen likes taking short walks on the beach because she always gets sand in her shoes, enjoys skimming through books to make herself look edjumakated and can drink any type of vodka straight from the bottle for at least 15 seconds, including the cheap shit that comes in a plastic bag. From a purely heterosexual viewpoint, Karen is fucking flawless aside from one thing:

She’s gluten free.

However, Karen is not a goddamn pansy for being gluten free. Unfortunately for her and at least a few dozen other people, she has Celiac disease. This means that whenever Karen eats or drinks something containing gluten, the following occurs shortly afterwards:

Er, at least that’s what I think happens. Not like I ever asked. Would you walk up to a cancer patient and ask what their dumps are like after a round of chemo? I don’t think so. Granted, Karen has a gluten intolerance which is nowhere near as bad as cancer, but think of it this way: would you rather live a life full of gluten, including pasta, pizza, tacos and beer BUT die of cancer when you’re 50, OR be gluten free and live until you’re 70? The obvious answer is death at 50 — as if anything great happens once you’re over the hill anyways.

The reason I’ve taken the time to tell you about Karen is because she’s exempt from my forthcoming tongue-lashing. Karen can’t help that her body hates her, and has to live the rest of her life knowing that given the choice between digesting a slice of bread or giving her a big “Fuck You,” her stomach will promptly flip the bird and blow out her colon like the beaches of Normandy on D-day.

That being said, anyone else who is “gluten free” but does NOT suffer from Celiac disease is a goddamn pansy.

I get that people are trying to be “healthier” these days, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with putting down a box of Thin Mints in exchange for a bundle of broccoli. But don’t fucking tell me that your carton of gluten free “Creme-O’s” are healthier for me than my Oreos. They’re both shit. Pure, calorie-laden fat-filled shit. Deciding whether to eat Creme-O’s or Oreos when your body doesn’t give a fuck about gluten is like ordering a salad at a restaurant. Yeah, you went for the “healthier” option, but you’re still a dumbfuck for thinking that drowning your lettuce in Ranch with a heaping mountain of bacon bits on the side is any better for you than a cheeseburger and fries. At least I’m honest with myself about the garbage I eat, whereas when my dad went gluten free for a week all I got to hear was:

“You shouldn’t eat that, here’s the gluten free version instead. It’s healthier.”

“Gluten gives you cancer if you eat enough of it.”

“Did you know people who are gluten free generally weigh less than people who aren’t?”

“We can’t go to that restaurant, they don’t have any gluten free options available.”

Bitch did you even READ the nutrition facts? All that being gluten free means is that it doesn’t have any wheat in it. Potato chips are gluten free; so are French fries and a bunch of name brand candy bars, yet look at all these morons who think slapping a label on their food automatically makes it “better” for you:

But you know what? My dad was right about one thing; people who are gluten free do generally weigh less than people who aren’t. And you know why that is? Because they’re fucking STARVING. Here is a photo of me, an average-sized 23-year-old female, standing next to my Celiac-addled friend Karen:

As you can see, at any given moment Karen is at risk of being blown away by a particularly strong draft or nearby sneeze. Karen is pasty white and eats very little, not just because there isn’t a whole lot she can eat but because all the things her stomach doesn’t punt her for eating taste like butthole. The only reason to be gluten free is because your body hates you, not because you’re some crunchy granola-eating hippie who’s protesting gluten after reading a conspiracy theory online that said farming wheat was created by the FBI to move Native Americans out of their homelands.

Anytime I meet someone who doesn’t eat gluten but doesn’t have Celiac I automatically assume they’re an uninformed moron. This is what the rise of Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr and Instagram have done to us — we are now a society that values anecdotal information over legitimate facts. There are at least six people on my newsfeed that I’ve had to unfollow because they’re trying to sell the idea that covering yourself in saran wrap and lotion will make you lose weight, and another twenty that commented saying “OMG sign me UP!!”

Gluten doesn’t make you fat. Nor will it give you Alzheimer’s or whatever other buzzword disease your hipster friends came up with. Being a lazy piece of shit makes you fat, and according to my religious Aunt Barb who has recently found the “Share” button on Facebook, pre-marital sex and masturbation give you cancer.

And thank god for that — because I’d choose a fat stack of waffles over flickin’ my bean any day.

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