When in the Course of kid events, it becomes necessary for one generation to ignore the no fair food rules of another, and to eat the yummy things to which the Laws of Nature and Chef Boyardee entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mom and dad requires that they should say why—and not just “cuz.”
We hold these truths to be pretty obvious: that all kids are created equal (by the Stork), that they are endowed by the Refrigerator with many, many Choices, that among these are Pizza, Chicken Nuggets, and the pursuit of Sugar Highs.
That to secure these choices, Recipes are shared among our moms, deriving their ingredients from the content of the grocery store.
That whenever any Diet becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the kids to alter or abolish it, and to institute new Meals, laying the foundations of a better food pyramid on such principles and organizing their calories in such form as to affect the Happiness of their taste buds.
The threat of time-out, indeed, will dictate that Meals long established should not be changed just because of cool ads or TV dinner packages. But when a long train of salads and spinach smoothies disguised as mint chocolate shakes evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism of the intestines, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Foods, and to provide new Options for feeling full.
To prove this, let Nutrition Facts be submitted to a candid world.
Mom and dad have called together shopping trips at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of the best corn dogs and cinnamon rolls.
They have dissolved Desserts repeatedly, after we said “no” with very grown up firmness to their invasions on our Rights to eat cake daily.
They have refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to allow other goodies instead; our Cravings remaining in the meantime exposed to the stares of the Pillsbury Doughboy from without, and stomach convulsions within.
They have encouraged the suck-ups and tattle-tales amongst us, and have endeavored to bring on the mockery of our siblings, the merciless 12- and 13-year-olds, whose known method of picking on us is sneaking their Brussels sprouts onto our plates.
They have kept among us, in times of barbecue, vegan cook books.
They have stored large heads of broccoli in the cheese drawer when the vegetable drawer is full;
They have imposed Vitamins on us without our Consent;
And they have deprived us in many cases of the benefits of Trying the McFlurry.
We have talked to other Family members about this and how our attempts to run away from home have not panned out. But even our grandmas and fun uncles have been deaf to the voice of justice. Therefore, we must hold them, as we hold mom and dad, Enemies of fast food, and Friends of the Jolly Green Giant.
We, therefore, the 8-year-olds of the united Blocks of this Neighborhood, in the Treehouse in Sam G.’s Backyard, Assembled, appealing to our Magic 8-Ball for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good Kids of this Suburb, solemnly publish and declare, That We are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent Eaters; that we are Absolved from all Allegiance to the gross demands of mom and dad, and that all connection between us and Vegetables, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent Eaters, We have full Power to establish Sloppy Joe Saturdays, trade carrot and celery sticks at school for literally anything else, order Delivery *and* buy DiGiorno’s, put Oreos inside pancakes inside waffles, and to eat all other Foods which Independent Eaters may of right eat.
And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of our Secret Handshake, we mutually pledge to each other our Weekend Bedtimes, our Piggy Banks, and our sacred TV Privileges.
–Evan “Google” Guglielmo
|–Sascha “Sriracha” Krasinski
The Taylor Street Cul-de-sac
The East Side of Maple Street from the Library to the Tree with All the Writing On It
|–Tucker “Stuck” Howe
The North Side of Winter Street from the Post Office to the Skate Park, Which Is So Stupid Now that They Took Out that Jump
|–Sam Griggs||–Pierce Springfield
High Street (from the Gas Station to the Big Rock that Looks Like Mrs. Roy’s Beagle)
–Joshua “Moose” Stuart
Bog Hill Road
Log Mill Road
–Brantley “Sleeves” Finlay