By: Petra Chase, Features Editor and Mason Mattu, Humour Editor
As SFU’s independent student newspaper, The Peak is committed to highlighting the concerns of our local community. This week, our team decided to settle a decades-long rivalry between Bob and Frank, two Burnaby locals with very strong opinions on a pertinent health-related topic. Both of them bussed down to our offices at the SFU Burnaby campus to stand face-to-face. It was our hope that the two would walk away with a renewed sense of what disagreement means — and why it can actually be healthy.
Bob, local tinfoil hat manufacturer: Every day, millions of Canadians participate in a cult-like ritual that has been orchestrated by Big Jam, Big Toast, and Big Dairy. They eat in the morning. Why mornings? Mind control. They want to erase our dreams with their demonic egg yolk. Why on God’s flat earth would you support this, you corporate shill?
Fibermaxxed Frank (and the Microbes): The real cult is thinking jam, toast, and dairy are breakfast foods. If your first meal doesn’t at least include chia seeds soaked in matcha or a lentil-yogurt smoothie, what are you even doing?? As a fibermaxxer for four years now (#fibermaxxed4Lyfe), I’ve become one with my gut microbiome’s hive mind, and we can teach you The Way. Follow our TikTok for incantation recipes we’ve whispered to optimize your poop schedule.
Bob: Don’t talk to me about my poop, you walking billboard for death. It’s just as liquid as any healthy person’s. Let me debunk some of the lies you just told. Chia seeds are patented by some Big Seed company. They put spyware in that shit. One sniff of that and the CIA will be on your trail for years. Your sweet, innocent, lentils? Heh. They’re packed with thousands of microplastics that Sandra Bullock and her Hollywood crew want us to ingest — so they look better than us. I’ve gone 30 years without breakfast and I mog Sandra Bullock 24 hours a day. All I’m asking is for you to go hungry for a few hours before lunch. Is that too much to ask?
Fibermaxxed Frank: I’m constantly in direct contact with my gut-brain axis. Right now the microbes are saying, “Your liquid poops are a sign your microbes resent you for feeding them anything but a fibrous, mucilaginous goop to start their day . . . just so you can look like Sandra Bullock.” The highly cultured gut microbiome exists on an elevated plane of existence beyond our understanding, where churning your leftovers into solid, compact [insert your favourite poo–phemism] helps them tap into the all-knowing consciousness. They’re like trillions of little WALL-Es pressing your trash into little cubes of treasure. They’d certainly be the first to know if there was some widespread Hollywood conspiracy occurring at the digestive level.
Bob: I’m looking at your pathetic face right now. Your jawline looks like the space aliens from planet Pluto took a landing right on it (this happened to my aunt as well, I would get you the name of her plastic surgeon if I liked your pathetic gastrointestinal system). Wait . . . your shits are compact? Only a military diet could do that . . . you . . . mole —
At this point in time, Bob slapped Fibermaxxed Frank with a lining of tinfoil in his palm. Frank proceeded to pour oats all over Bob’s head, prompting Bob to scream in agony on the floor. Our team separated the two for a period of time before bringing them back to the non-meal specific table. All props were taken away. Our fact-checker also confirmed that Frank has never worked for the military or the government in any capacity.
Bob: Since we’ve determined that you’re most likely a government spy, I’ve got a real big question for you buddy. They call breakfast the most important meal of the day — but I don’t remember dragging myself over to the polling booth to vote for that. Unless . . . no. I am sure that I didn’t vote for that. Who gives you the right to push that onto me? Huh?
Fibermaxxed Frank: Well, I’ve got a question for you, buddy. Breakfast literally means the meal to break your fast, and you actually haven’t been skipping breakfast all along — you’ve just been having it late and calling it lunch (which is a made up concept anyway — there is only breakfast, second breakfast, and third breakfast, and breakfast eve — the night before breakfast). I don’t know what you’re eating, but if you’re not fibermaxxing, you’re going to get left behind. And I don’t mean that in a metaphorical sense. I mean that when the aliens who’ve been communing with my microbial culture come to save them from the impending apocalypse, they will see how good of a host I’ve been to them, and take me along. You, and your ridiculous tinfoil hat, will succumb.
Bob: You believe in aliens, too? Are we more alike than I think . . . ? Or perhaps . . .
Bob took a brief pause to gather his thoughts. He then proceeded to punch Frank in the nose with another piece of tinfoil. He then ran out of the room, accusing Frank of not only working for the CIA, but for the aliens of Pluto. We were unable to derive further reason for this accusation.
Have a controversial opinion? Ready to learn the power of dialogue to resolve our differences? Email us! [email protected].
