Saturday Night Live
During the winter break of my Sophomore year at the University of Nevada, Reno (go fighting Soft Sixteens!) I took a backpacking excursion through the inhospitable wilderness of the South American rainforest. I hiked for nine days with my trusty guide Tuo Uu-nu Eepchak. I was but a fool child, ill prepared for the conditions I would face in these endangered woods. Tuo became more than a guide to me, through our perilous journey he became mentor, teacher, father, lover, and the night that he boiled his freshly severed foot to provide us the nourishment we would need to see us home, I knew not to refuse the plate, and ate every last bite without once breaking eye contact.
As Tuo carried me, in an uncomfortable one footed hobble, back to civilization we collapsed, unable to journey any further. I was certain this was the end, so as to not let any of my brave friend go to waste, I began chewing on his left hand. As I drifted off into unconsciousness, suckling upon the sweet, caramel colored digit I was prepared to welcome death’s clammy embrace. But to my surprise I awoke again, laying on a straw thatch that a pungent combination of my profuse perspiration and seeping diarrhea had bedamped. Beside my bed of natural fibers sat a woman of indeterminate age and coffee complection. Her heavy, naked breast swayed gently as she reached into a loosely woven basket that sat in her lap, retrieved a single nut and carefully fed it through my cracked, blistered lips.
Over the next week I was nursed back to health by this plump, wizened woman and adopted by her tribe. I received a native name, “Kuh Naya”, which I chose to believe translated to “Brave Explorer” but which I knew was more likely to have meant “Oozer of Liquids”. My strength returned almost immediately as my diet of native legumes replenished my vitality. When I was finally well enough to resume my journey home I asked the elders for their permission to take a supply of their restorative food back to the states to offer the civilized world a chance at the restorative effect of these native people’s hidden miracle bounty. The elders refused, but I could not take no for an answer. As the tribe slept I filled my back pack and slipped off into the night.
Upon returning to Reno I packaged my ill gotten prize for presentation to a friend in the grocery business. I told him about my adventures in the jungle and my encounter with the natives and offered him a taste. The flavor assaulted his dulled western taste buds and the burst of vim and vigor shot through his body with one bite. He grasped at my collar, begging me for my secret, offering me anything in the world for this wonderful prize.
“What do you call these?” he pleaded, tears welling in his eyes.
With no small swell of pride I straightened up and smugly replied.
“These are the native nuts of the ancient and wise Haree tribe of South America.” I beamed. “What you have in your mouth, are my Haree Nuts.”
A group calling themselves One Million Moms is leading a boycott against Ben & Jerry’s over their new limited edition ice cream flavor based on a Saturday Night Live sketch; “Schweddy Balls”.
“The vulgar new flavor has turned something as innocent as ice cream into something repulsive,” the group of humorless hags said. “Not exactly what you want a child asking for at the supermarket.”
One Million Moms, a “division of the Mississippi-based American Family Association” also hates Ben & Jerry’s commemorative flavor “Hubby Hubby”, a special edition of “Chubby Hubby” celebrating gay marriage.
“It seems that offending customers has become an annual tradition for Ben & Jerry’s.
One Million Moms (which I am almost certain, does not consist of one million actual mothers) hate fun or gay ice creams.
People actually live their lives hating jokes, being offended by tasty frozen treats that don’t hate gays and threatening people that sell things that others rightfully don’t think are insulting them, that they’re not going to buy something that they likely weren’t buying in the first place. This is important to these people. It makes me want to punch everything, ever.
I do not know what my parents expected me to learn from the people of your planet when they launched my escape rocket only moments before my birth home exploded millions of miles from here. But what I have learned so far I do not like.