Every black person in America lives with the horrifying truth that everything we love will eventually give us diabetes.
That’s right, buddy. Consider the following…
Fried chicken, fried scallops, fried shrimp, catfish, candied yams, collards, hog maws, chitterlings (ugh), scrapple, biscuits and gravy, peach cobbler, fried apples, sweet potato pie, cranberry sauce, green beans, stuffing, fried turkey, fried potatoes, pig feet, chicken feet (why?), hamburgers, pulled pork sammiches, hot dogs, pork ribs, butter beans, BBQ chicken, chicken and dumplings, corn pudding, rice pudding, red beans and rice, grits, black-eyed peas, devilled eggs, extra cheesy mac and cheese, corn bread, kool aid, southern sweet tea (which peach, if you’re a rich asshole) and above all…the HOT SAUCE.
You’re hungry as fuck now. You know you are. You’re so hungry right now that you wanna run outta the office and make love to someone for the next six hours. And I’m not talking about tender, emotional lovemaking. I’m talking about angry fucking – the kind that leaves you, your significant other, and even the family dog ten pounds lighter and covered in sweat. The kinda sex that, to a passerby, looks more like Capoeira than coitus. Sex that’s so damn good you start swearing at each other. That’s the kind of irresistible fucking hunger I’m talking about.* Yep. Well guess what?
It’s going to kill us all.
Figure 1: Vile Temptress
My grandmother is 96 years old. In her 96 years, I don’t think she’s ever eaten a meal that wasn’t made with at least 6 heaping tablespoons of butter and lard. She eats soul food EVERY MOTHERFUCKING DAY. Yet, she’s about the healthiest 96 year old you will ever meet. Her hearing is spotty and she tends to forget things, but she can walk anywhere, climb stairs without a problem, and had the presence of mind about a month ago to tell me “oh child, siddown and shove it” when I made the rather ludicrous (but empirically true) claim that cats hate black people.
The rest of us are doomed. Soul food is going to go from being a delectable treat to forcing us to take Wilford Brimley seriously instead of laughing at his pronunciation of the word ‘diabetes’ (see Figure 2).
Diabetes is particularly frightening to me, because being both black and native american means that I’m burning both ends of the diabetes candle. Chicken to the right of me, Bannock to the left of me. For all the legions of black people running around out there thinking you have Cherokee ancestry…you better hope you’re wrong.
*I should write trashy romance novels. Or more accurately, I shouldn’t.