Crickets *crickets*

Many people far smarter than I are promoting crickets as a replacement for burgers, dogs, and any other popular meat snack. Besides the practical issues of making a bunch of crickets look like a bone-in ribeye, I have my own personal objections. You want to eat crickets? Fine. Eat ‘em. But this is bigger than you, bigger than me, bigger than swarms of biblical pests coming to a supermarket near both of us.

For years crickets have done our dirty work, piping up at any awkward silence to fill the aural void. So what happens if we eat them all?

I’ll tell you what happens, and it ain’t pretty. When your friend makes a crude joke or your neighbor asks an impolite question, there will be nothing standing in their way. No impediment to make them think twice before bringing the mood down. 

Crickets, with their trademark chirping, acted as a bulwark against uncomfortable situations. Everyone going in knew that if they said or did something stupid, a few leaping insects would chime in, destroying their credibility and confidence. It was an unspoken, though hardly inaudible, aspect of the social contract. Awkwardness was met not with derision, but with crickets. They were the ones who gave us the wherewithal to ignore a terrible comedian, moronic politician, or bantering musician incapable of simply singing their songs. Crickets were there to show us the way, to do it first, to let us know it was okay to judge.

That could all change if we start eating them. The danger that no one wants to raise is that this new food group could usher in a Dark Age of Awkwardness. You have no idea how much work crickets were doing to prevent that. And this is how we repay them? They better taste good, because when one day someone brings a sweet cricket pie to your Thanksgiving dinner, there won’t be any crickets left to stop them.