The scoop on what will kill you

A few weeks ago, I wrote that hot sauce brands were trying to kill you. Whereas, I do not wish to be a mouthpiece of morbidity, I am finding out daily that there are a lot of things that want to kill you.

(Incidentally, if you want to see a real mouthpiece of morbidity, go to the attic and pull out your old pacifier from the box marked “keepsakes.” That bulbous piece of plastic binkie probably had BPA, ortho-phthalates, lead paint, asbestos, and two forms of tuberculosis all melded into a baby ball gag that would shut you up. But hey, you’re still alive!)

Very quickly, here are some things that want to kill you: al-Queada, al-Shabaab, al-Cohol, al-Imony, al-Zheimer’s, al-Igators, al-Abama, and Al Pacino (“Say hello to my little friend!).

And I’m not even out of the A’s. But for now, let’s skip the B’s and go straight to the C’s. … The Big C—not cancer. Nay, I’m talking about Capital C; that rhymes with “see” and that stands for “Look, a cat.”

Your cat wants to kill you.

Scoop my litter--I command it! 

And she is recruiting some dangerous friends. Not al-Qaeda, your el gato has recruited an equally dangerous partner, the toxoplasma gondii parasite. (This is not to be confused with Toxic Plasma Gandhi, the name of my punk Bollywood fusion prog band … which I have not yet formed.)

According to a recent study, the t. gondii parasite residing in your cat’s gut and litter box may make women more prone to suicide.

This is, no doubt, in cahoots with your cat, who wants to eat you.

The study of 45,000 women in Denmark apparently shows that exposure to the parasite causes changes in the brain. It concluded that women infected with t. gondii are 1.5 times more likely to attempt suicide than—say—women infected with t.e. lawrence.

There are, however, some flaws in this study. First of all, it was done in Denmark, dank dark Denmark, where suicide is a national sport. (Note: this is not statistically true. Denmark often ranks as one the happiest nations in the world. But I simply refuse to believe that and your complaints will not change my mind.)

Second, it’s not parasites in your cat litter than make you want to kill yourself.  It’s just the cat litter. It’s the drudgery of scooping your cat’s waste—the realization that you currently live in a Turd World country—that makes you ask, “Is this all there is?”  To be or not to be. To scoop pee or not to scoop pee.

I can't believe I ate the whole human. 

There’s something rotten in Denmark, indeed. And it needs to be scooped.

Your cat knows this. And teaming up with a parasite makes perfect sense—more carcass for kitty. Make no mistake, your cat would sell you out to a tiger or mountain lion if it meant it could eat at least a bit of you. But it would rather have all of you.

In the meantime, Mr. Mittens will kill you with cuddles until the parasite takes over. A mountain lion, however, will kill you with gnashing teeth and claws.   

They say, if you encounter a mountain lion in the wild, you’re supposed to open your jacket to make yourself look bigger. Yeah, right. This is akin to a cow walking up to you and exposing its psoas major (filet mignon city) to make itself look cuter.

You will find these parts particularly tasty. 

Rather than exposing all your soft and juicy parts to a cougar, I suggest you poop your pants. No mountain lion will want to get near that … and—you got it—risk getting a parasite.