Everyone loves the X-Men, right? You wouldn’t really fear mutants if they were real, right? They could feel safe revealing their powers on, say, their hilarious blog, right? And you wouldn’t shoot them with poisonous darts or send Peter Dinklage after them, right?

I’m asking for a friend.

A friend with great hair.

And the world’s most adorable puppy.

And she’s married to Matt Damon.

Okay, she’s not married to Matt Damon.

As far as he knows.

Well, I know I’m a great liar and had you all fooled, but I actually AM talking about myself. I am a mutant. But I have never used my powers against another human being, so please don’t be afraid of me. But don’t cross me either.

To fully explain my powers, I have to start back in prehistoric times. Once upon a time, there was prehistoric man. Then things were pretty boring for a while, which brings us to modern day.

As it turns out, adult humans do not actually have the genetic makeup to allow them to properly digest milk. As this NY Times article described it:

“Throughout most of human history, the ability to digest lactose, the principal sugar of milk, has been switched off after weaning because there is no further need for the lactase enzyme that breaks the sugar apart. But when cattle were first domesticated 9,000 years ago and people later started to consume their milk as well as their meat, natural selection would have favored anyone with a MUTATION that kept the lactase gene switched on.”

Turns out, I have that genetic mutation. I am a mutant. A very powerful mutant.

When I found out, I grabbed a milk jug, ran out into the street in front of my house, shouted, “FEAR ME!” and guzzled down the whole gallon of milk.

Then I threw up.

I think my neighbors were pretty impressed up to that point.

One of them called the police, trying to get me arrested for public intoxication. Some people just hate us mutants.

Now I just have to decide what to do with my powers.

Obviously step number 1 is to go hang out with Sir Patrick Stewart. We’ll have so much fun!

I’ll say, “Hi! My name’s Veronica and I can digest milk! Can I call you Captain Picard?”

And Sir Patrick Stewart will say, “I think you’re confused. I’m Sir Ian McKellen.”

And I’ll say, “That’s such a Picard thing to say!”

And then Sir Patrick Stewart and I will laugh and laugh.

But after all that, how do I leverage my newfound mutation to do the most good for human kind? I know I could take my powers on the road and make my fortune on stage drinking milk and then sitting there while the audience is awed by my body’s lack of ill after-effects.

But I’m not just in this for the money. I want to do some good for the world before I go home every night to sleep in my fabulous mansion.

I just have to figure out how to use my mutation to stop people from committing crimes. Some of us X-Men have less easily-identified-as-useful powers than others. I’m like that Toad guy from the first X-Men movie. He’s got all the powers and talents of a toad, which, much like that Liberal Arts degree I got, doesn’t really translate into helpful, real-life skills.

Sure, I could show up outside of a bank that was getting robbed, but then what?

What I need is some accessories. Like guns that shoot milk bullets.

Then I could burst into the bank, a milk-gun in each hand; one that shoots cow’s milk bullets and one that shoots goat’s milk bullets. As a backup, I’d have my semi-automatic cheesecake gun holstered at my hip. And of course I’d have excessive amounts of extra milk bullets tucked in those criss-crossing leather straps across my chest, just to make me look tough.

I’d yell, “Surrender now! Don’t make me shoot you! Or in fifteen minutes you’ll be a little gassy and possibly have some cramping!”

They’d have no choice but to surrender.

I’d stick around long enough to be awarded the keys to the city. Then I’d jump into my trademark Milk-Delivery-Truck-Mobile and speed back to the Dairy Cave, a secret solace built under my fabulous mansion.  There I’d be greeted by my butler.

And I’d say, “It was a good day, Alfred. Don’t wake me til noon tomorrow.”

And Alfred would say, “How many times do I have to tell you, my name is Sir Ian McKellen?”

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