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September 5, 2011 | by  | in Opinion |
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I Am Offended Because… Original Sin

I am a godless woman.

 I’ve tried the whole organised religion thing—I went to a high school where on special occasions the prefects wore veils —but it’s just not for me. The closest thing that I have to a God is halloumi cheese in that I worship Him and make time for Him every Sunday morning. I ain’t got no religion but I believe that a person can commit acts of blasphemy. I might be godless, but trust, I’ve got morals. As well as all of that obvious abhorrent stuff (the animal cruelty and the rape and the racism) below are the five things I just don’t believe in.

Organised Fun

Games are activities for people who can’t hold a conversation. No, I don’t want to play cards.

Asking Me Which Street to Drive Down (If You’re A Taxi Driver)

One of my failures as a person is that I can’t drive. When I was sixteen renouncing parental offers of driving lessons seemed like a quirky idea, a rebellion. Now that I’m 23 that seems like the least rebellious teenage rebellion ever. If I’d gotten my tongue pierced at least I could take you to the airport. As a result of my teenage angst, I often find myself nestled in the leathery backseat of taxis, inhaling an aroma of air freshener and the many burgers which have gone before me. No, I don’t care whether we take Willis or the Terrace. I know nothing about roads. If I did, I would be driving instead of paying you ten dollars to take me home in the rain. I appreciate your concern, but please, can’t we just talk about the weather? Also, yes, I know I’m an asshole.

Charging Extra for Condiments

I’m sorry, but what? Fifty cents for barbecue sauce? A dollar for sour cream? TWO DOLLARS FOR HOLLANDAISE?  Do you want me to eat here or what? It’s not my fault that your food is so dry and tasteless that I need extra sauce in the first place. Seriously, If I were Jesus, and this was the last judgement, your restaurant would be going to hell.

Using the Word ‘Wipe’

EURGH. Even typing that word makes me want to die. It is the grossest of words. I would much prefer it if you could describe wiping the counter as ‘stroking it with a cloth’. Wiping your bum should hereby be referred to as a ‘toilet paper massage’.

Heating Avocado

Seriously, in my godless world a good avocado is as hard to find as the HOLY GRAIL. Finding the perfect avocado is actually fucking impossible—Dan Brown could write a book about it—and sometimes, no matter how many you squeeze, you can’t just get a good one (that’s what she said) (sorry). I actually just want to cry when I think about people locating those perfect avocados AND  HEATING THEM UP AND RUINING THEM. Cooking an avocado is like using Shakespeare’s manuscripts as toilet paper. Sacrilege.

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