That's just it. I'm not a baby; I'm grown up. So, I don't have to eat gross things I don't like anymore.
In fact, if I want a freakin' hot fudge sundae for dinner, I can have one.
Because I pay bills and taxes.
So there. {sticking tongue out and putting hands beside ears, waggling fingers}
You see, according to Cocteau’s plan, I’m the enemy, ‘cause I like to think; I like to read. I’m into freedom of speech and freedom of choice. I’m the kind of guy who likes to sit in a greasy spoon and wonder, “Gee, should I have the T-bone steak or the jumbo rack of barbecued ribs with the side order of gravy fries?” I WANT high cholesterol. I wanna eat bacon and butter and BUCKETS of cheese, okay? I want to smoke a Cuban cigar the size of Cincinnati in the non-smoking section. I want to run through the streets naked with green Jell-o all over my body reading Playboy magazine. Why? Because I suddenly might feel the need to, okay, pal? I’ve SEEN the future. Do you know what it is? It’s a 47-year-old virgin sitting around in his beige pajamas, drinking a banana-broccoli shake, singing “I’m an Oscar Meyer Wiener”.