Good news: It's not my fault, about the Cheez-Its.
I eat a lot of Cheez-Its. I get them at the supermarket, when I'm wandering the aisles, trying to locate the items on a grocery list made by my wife. For guys, this a stressful task. This is the Scavenger Hunt from Hell.
Say the list says "detergent." What you want, as a guy, is an aisle with a big sign that says DETERGENT, underneath which are 1,000 identical bottles, all labeled: "Detergent."
Instead, you have to make choices. Do you want Wisk? Or Tide? OK, that's easy. Wisk was responsible for the "ring around the collar" jingle, and you will not buy Wisk until Wisk issues a formal apology to humanity, along with documented proof that everybody involved in producing that jingle has been executed.
So Tide it is. But which Tide? Deep Clean Tide? Clean Breeze Tide? Deep Clean Breeze Tide? Deep Clean Breeze Tide With Bleach? New Ultra-Deep-Clean Lowfat Country Meadow Potpourri Tide Now Fortified With Lemony Scent Calcium?
The guy brain cannot handle all these consumer choices. The guy brain is designed to deal with deeper philosophical issues, such as: "What size TV do I need?" (Answer: "A bigger one.")
So eventually, I do what most guys do in the detergent aisle, which is grab a bottle at random and hope my wife will be happy with it. Which, of course, she is not. She looks at the bottle as if I have brought home a 40-ounce maggot, then offers some picky criticism, such as: "This is fabric softener."
Women.
But that is not my point. My point is that, while wandering around the supermarket, sooner or later I get to the Fatal Snacks Aisle, and I realize that my wife has somehow forgotten, for the 5,000th consecutive time, to put Cheez-Its on my list. So, I buy a box. I always buy a big box, a box that could be used for helicopter storage. My thinking is: "This should be enough Cheez-Its for several weeks!"
When I regain consciousness, I'm in my driveway. The Cheez-Its box is on the car seat next to me, empty. My belly is grotesquely bloated, and I'm covered with sticky orange grit. Slowly, the horrible truth dawns on me: "Somebody has stolen my Cheez-Its and surgically implanted a bowling ball in my abdomen."
No, seriously, I realize that I have consumed the entire box of Cheez-Its. I've done this many times and, for years, I believed it was my fault. Fortunately, I live in the United States of America, where we are gradually coming to understand that nothing we do is ever our fault, especially if it is really stupid.
