I Blame My Bad Behavior On Climate Change
If the Democrats can pin everything on global warming, so can I.
As I filled my tiny paper cup with water, I overheard some colleagues discussing the recent spate of air conditioner thefts around town. “Some people don’t respect Earth, and these crazy heat waves are the consequences,” said the one with an armful of Liberal tattoos. “Right! I can’t even blame the burglars,” exclaimed the one with purple hair, while his comrades-in-piercings nodded solemnly. A lightbulb went off: I could get away with anything, so long as I blamed it on climate change.
I tested my theory the following morning, purposely getting to work twenty minutes late. I shrugged in the direction of my boss, shaking my head for effect. “If there weren’t so many non-electric cars veering into the bike lane, I would’ve gotten here at nine!” This was greeted with a chorus of enthusiastic “mhmms,” and “yups” from my coworkers, bobbing up and down on their ergonomic balls like a school of gullible fish. Little did they know my wife Monica had dropped me off in our second Hummer.
After work, I met some clients for dinner. We went to one of those places where you pluck your lobster straight from the tank (my choice). A few crustaceans in, my stomach started gurgling. I had eaten a mile high pepperoni and cheese calzone for lunch, despite my lactose intolerance. I considered running to the bathroom, but I didn’t much feel like asking the guy to my right to scoot out of the booth so I could go — I hate that. Instead, I let out two big, impetuous toots right there at the table. They reverberated on the vinyl banquette like a trombone in a tiled subway station.
My clients were stunned. The one with the skinny tie put his knife and fork down in disgust. I felt glee but feigned embarrassment. “I’m so sorry gentlemen. Please understand, I don’t eat meat or dairy in order to reduce my carbon footprint. I haven’t had animal flesh in years, and I don’t think it’s agreeing with me.” I cradled my head in my hands to jazz up my performance. “I’m just so afraid for my children’s future.” The bozo to my right patted me on the back. “Hey, that’s really admirable. I’ll make sure our male secretary picks a vegan spot next time.” I aped appreciation and tried not to burst out laughing; the closest thing I’ll ever have to children are my lizards, and I’ll outlive them all.
Later that night, my wife Monica was rushed to the hospital with a Cheeto-sized kidney stone. Well, we assumed it was a kidney stone. She rarely goes to the doctor on account of her Etsy store, which keeps her very busy. Anyhow. I was at the Knicks game, and the Knicks were in the third quarter. My Blackberry kept buzzing. I didn’t answer, but I sensed it was her, demanding my presence. As if both of us being miserable would have eased her pain.
I finally called her back while in line for a chicken bucket refill. My Wordle (the only thing besides basketball and lizards that I truly enjoy) wouldn’t load, so I had nothing better to do. “Where the fuck are you?” she screamed. “The ‘kidney stone’ is actually a kid!! I’m about to have a baby!!!”
Ugggggggggggh. I drizzled honey mustard onto my new supply of poultry tenders. I shook the bucket as I poured to make sure they were evenly coated; that’s the trick.
“Monica. My dear wife. You know I’d love to be there to see the birth of what I assume is my offspring.” I paused to lick stray mustard off my thumb. “Unfortunately, I can’t support having children, what with the planet being overheated. It’s simply unethical to introduce a child to this madness.” A whistle blew inside the arena. “Damn it, what did I miss?” I huffed, momentarily forgetting I was on the phone with my bananas wife, Monica.
A glass shattered on the other end of the line. My wife Monica seethed into the phone. “The Wordle today is ‘VEGAN’ you asshole.” She hung up on me just in time for the start of the fourth quarter. As I dashed back to my seat, I bowled over a geriatric priest. He looked up at me from the floor, using the hem of his robe to wipe his wrinkly, scraped palms. I shouted as I scurried onward, cradling my chicken bucket. “The plagues! The plagues are upon us! The wrath of God shall smite us all for destroying His most precious planet!” The priest nodded. “Well, he’s not wrong.”
