I learned long ago that having a head full of knowledge isn't all it's cracked up to be. Sure it has its perks. I certainly would never have been able to woo my wife were it not for my cranium of lady-killing obscure sports knowledge. (Back then I loved to win the women over with my recital of the 10 best seasons by a field goal kicker in college football history, with Sade's “Smooth Operator” playing in the background.) 

Yet these facts don't make me happy. For instance, my knowledge of the dangers of mid-air turbulence to un-belted airline passengers promotes my general hatred of flying. Yet my additional knowledge of the overall safety of airlines does nothing to eliminate my belief that any airplane I get on will end in a giant fireball on some farm in rural Iowa. In addition, I always think of the story of two rogue black bears who killed and ate a camper in North Carolina just as I go to sleep in my tent during a camping trip. I read that story years ago.

Being stupid means being happy.

This is why I spend most of my waking life trying to avoid nutritional labels. Sure, the FDA probably thinks it's doing a good thing by requiring food companies to inform consumers of the actual content of whatever it is we're eating. (That said, I don't think they include the really useful information, such as the number of cigarette butts that were dropped in a can of chili or the amount of grubby factory worker urine in my cream corn.)

I find nutritional labels to be terrible, awful things that should be burned for their brutal usefulness. I hate them. I hate them because they tell me the truth about what it is I'm eating, and that knowledge sticks with me like extra sausage to my arteries. Sure, the companies try to spin these labels by making ridiculous claims such as the one in which a half a gallon of ice cream equals 14 servings. Fourteen servings? Try one serving. If I had my way I'd spend my evening with a gallon of peanut-butter-cup ice cream and a big-ass spoon. Anyway, thanks to my ridiculous insistence on learning math in high school I can easily get past food company serving-size spin with a quick calculation. DANG YOU, HIGH SCHOOL TEACHERS!!

So whenever I go to the grocery store I do what I can to avoid glancing at the label because if I do I'll immediately force myself to return said item before heading straight to the produce aisle for some turnips.  It's a stressful existence because the moment I tell myself not to look at something I have an immense urge to look – just like that idiot who tells you not to look down as you're crossing a deep gorge on a rickety rope bridge. You always look, freak out, then plummet to your doom.

And now there are people who want to take these labels into restaurants. And there are sadistic people like my boss who study the nutritional content of restaurant food items online, then recite that content to you right after you've eaten. To wit:

Me: Last night I went to the Barnes & Noble and had a piece of Cheesecake Factory Pumpkin Cheesecake. I hadn't been that happy since the day my son was born.

Boss: That cake had 4,561 calories, 231 grams of fat and five gallons of sodium. It says here you'll die of a heart attack in two days. BUHUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA!!!

Me: Damn. Now I'm unhappy. ERK! (THUMP!)

Boss: (Looking down at my lifeless body) Wow. I'd better write up an ad for his replacement.

I do not, repeat do NOT need to know nutritional information. I don't spend my days calculating my riboflavin intake and anything else is either going to increase my stress level or give me false confidence that what I'm eating is healthy. I already know that any food I actually enjoy will kill me sooner or later. I just like living in denial. Sweet, sweet denial. And speaking of sweet, I think it's time for a cookie.

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