I don’t like it when egghead scientists tell me what to do. What do those elite, East Coast liberals know about what it’s like here on the ground in flyover country? Thus, out of self-assured spite, I have filled my entire house with asbestos.
It was a hard task, what with all the unnecessary red tape and regulations making simple, American commerce so damned hard. Ever try to buy asbestos? The government has made it next to impossible, putting hard-working asbestos miners and salesmen out of work, and making filling my home with the so-called “carcinogen” a real pain in the ass.
Sure, almost every scientist says asbestos is bad stuff. But generations of people lived, worked, and studied in buildings constructed with the miracle fireproof mineral. And what happened to those people? Yeah, exactly. Jack squat. Now I’m sure a few people here and there died of mesothelioma and asbestosis, but I’ll bet you they were using the stuff wrong. I read something on InfoWars about that. Well, I didn’t read it, so much as there was a picture of Alex Jones screaming with a caption about it. But that’s all the proof I need that my own preconceived bias on the matter is confirmed.
Besides, I’d rather rely on my own, hardscrabble, American experience than that of a bunch of “objective” scientists on the anti-asbestos payroll. They can try to stop me, but I’d sooner guarantee my own slow, painful death than think the “experts” have more expertise on something than I do.
The side effects of sucking on asbestos dust – if there are any at all – don’t come around for years and years. Statistically, given my proclivity for collecting guns, driving without a seatbelt, riding without a helmet, digging without calling 311, noodling in chest deep water, and eating room temperature shrimp from roadside shrimp vendors, I should be dead already. But here I am, sticking it to all the naysayers. I’m gonna take my chances on asbestos, Nancy Pelosi, because I live life on my own, self-detrimental, ridiculously ill advised terms.
It all makes the “nanny state” libs crazy, which is even more reason to revel in it. If snacking on shrimp in the danger zone pisses you off, here’s a solution: don’t do it! You’re not the one who has to pay for my hepatitis treatments, anyway. Well, unless you’re a beta cuck who pays taxes.
Now, some might say that “experts” spend a lifetime studying things and understand intricacies and nuances far beyond what my anecdotal, limited experience can comprehend. I don’t know what any of that means, but I do know what short, angry, pandering, loaded catchphrases mean. I’m a rugged, angry individualist who prefers marching in lockstep with other rugged, angry individualists. Don’t tread on me, you bunch of anti-asbestos crusaders!
I’ve tethered my wagon to asbestos, and ain’t no one gonna shake me loose from this train.
Asbestos itself could slip up and admit that it is highly carcinogenic, and I’d sprinkle a little on my shrimp po’ boy and smile.
Asbestos’s own cheerleaders could fall off one by one, and that’d just prove that they were false flag libtards all along. Real patriots like me don’t give up, ever.
Asbestos could marry an illegal immigrant, launder Vlad’s rubles, and tell me not to watch football, and I’d still go to hell and back just to keep you limp-wristed sociology majors from thinking you’d proven me wrong.
I have decided, oh soy boys and gender-neutral restroom advocates, that this is the hill upon which I will die.
I will put on my “Make America Fire-Resistant Yet Likely Incredibly Carcinogenic Again” hat, turn on Fox News, chug a pint of Red Dye #2, and smile a red-stained grin as the like-minded-yet-much-richer-than-me people on the TV tell me I’m right.