Will ‘Big Mother’ ever just leave well enough alone?

I can’t stand it. I’m sorry, I just can’t. The government won’t stop trying to fill in for my mom.

First legislators wanted us to know, beyond all question, that smoking is not healthy. There were, apparently, smokers somewhere who still believed they were doing their bodies a favor by lighting up 30 or 40 times a day. OK. Then they wanted us to wear seat belts. Most of us did anyway, because most folks aren’t idiots and have no desire to spend their last few seconds on Earth sailing over the hood of a Buick while thinking, “What the s...?”

But Big Mother couldn’t trust us to do the smart thing. So she passed a seat belt law, then a stricter law. I have little doubt that, ten years from now, driving without a seat belt, smoking indoors, drinking more than two beers in a single week, or saying unkind things about the sort of people who create these laws will be punishable by public stoning.  (Sadly, you’ll need a permit and special headgear to be among those throwing the rocks.)

My girlfriend Anne says I tend to talk in extremes, but honestly, if Thomas “That government is best that governs least” Jefferson could see the current state of this Republic, he would hop the next boat back to England carrying a sincere letter of apology to the King.

OK, I’m ranting here. I know, I know. Sorry.

It’s just that this morning I read an article saying the FDA is pushing for legislation that would force restaurants to list the calorie count of each entree on their menus next to the price.  Why? Because we’re too stupid to know a Quadruple Bypass Two-Pounder Burger at McDoofles has more calories than, say, a thin slice of watercress.

According to the head FDA mucky-muck, Americans eat more healthy foods if they have the caloric information right there in front of them. All I can say in response to this piece of unadulterated insight is, well, d-uh!

High school kids tend to spend less time on lover’s lanes if their pastor is in the backseat of the car, too, but that doesn’t mean the kids want him there! Hell, no! They want him back at the church where he belongs, passing out collection envelopes and planning the following Sunday’s sermon.

In like manner, if I plan to eat three pounds of greasy ground beef stuffed between two slices of white, pasty bread slathered with mayonnaise, I under no circumstances want the FDA leaning over the Formica table whispering in my ear that I’m committing suicide by cheeseburger. I know that and I’m doing it anyway!

I also sometimes drive too fast, I never get enough sleep, I sit really close to the TV, I listen to loud music without the aid of earplugs, I only wear my bicycle helmet when riding in heavy traffic, I rarely get a flu shot, I tend to argue with guys bigger than me in bars, I put salt on everything, I sometimes tackle household electrical problems on my own, I smoke five, even six cigarettes in a year’s time, I run with scissors, and­—though I should have had three by this age—I’ve only experienced one colonoscopy.

I am the FDA’s worst nightmare. What are they gonna do about it?!

Oh, yeah, pass another law.

I’m guessing that at this point, some legislator in Washington has donned his headgear and begun to gather stones.

Mike Taylor’s new book, Looking at the Pint Half Full, is available at mtrealitycheck.com. Email the author at mtaylor325@gmail.com.