I could see the signs. We all did. Even Mongo the Fat Cat, who thinks he's Batman The Furry Kind, saw the signs. Clear as a bell. So a month ago I slowly stripped down to my heroic blue Speedo's ("Music, Maestro!") and I looked in the mirror that wanted to crack so much ("Hello Mister One-pack!"). Where were those firm buttocks minstrels had written illustrious verses about? What had happened to the cheeks of love that could make any woman blush, and men, too? No, Sir, I didn't like the direction I was heading in. I didn't like it one
No, what really happened was a friend of mine said, "You used to be so handsome and thin. Now look at you." He meant it as a compliment. So basically it wasn't common sense that made me pull the switch on my culinary pig fests but sheer vanity. And did I mention talk is cheap? Well, so is being on a diet. I call it The Art of Look but Don't Touch. That means there's the chocolate, but take one bite and you're a loser. A softy. Worse than Clinton. A 46-year-old kid who needs a certificate that says, "He touched the chocolate, but we still think he's a winner." I don't think so. So that's what I've been doing these past few weeks: I look but I don't touch. So far I've lost 12 pounds and saved quite a few bucks in the process. Yay! Talk is cheap and, guess what, so is being on a diet.
But I'm moody as f**k. That's saying a lot coming from a blue guy who thinks crying is funny. I'm so moody I want to tear my couch apart. I want to jump on it and squash it like an oversized bug (I'm heavy enough) just because I feel I'm entitled to a bit of venting. I'm supposed to love that couch, though. It's where I do my Snore Olympics. But somebody's got to pay the price. Or some... thing. Kill the couch! Sigh. I'm so moody I keep glaring at my newly-built $500 bookcase and imagine setting the damn thing on fire. Who needs books when you're hungry? Who cares about a fresh coat of paint when your stomach says, "Screw that bookcase and jump that chocolate bar, dammit! Jump its bones!" And I agree with that inner-voice of mine. Books don't mean a thing when you've got this weak man's craving for more, more, MORE! Did I mention that The Little Prince may be my all-time favorite, but Charlie and the Chocolate Factory comes a close second? Well, these days I'm so hungry someone has to stop me from eating that chocolate infested book, too. Chapter and verse. Give me that book! I'll eat it!
But then I look in the mirror and I see this vain little angel land on my right shoulder — quite a sexy creature — and she whispers sweet words into my ear: "Oh you look so good. You look great. You almost look like a million bucks! Now you don't have to burn your discount Ted Baker suits, you handsome blue you. Come summertime, and you'll wear them like a prince. Not a fat prince. Not a thin prince, but an... okay prince. Just don't touch that chocolate. Don't touch that booze. Don't eat that book." And then Mr. Chocolate Devil Pants lands on my left shoulder and yells, "Eat me!" And I curse and swear and I find myself pondering those certificates for losers who are really whiny winners, and I wonder if they'd taste any good with a bit of salt and pepper. (The certificates, not the whiners.) Maybe a bit of hot sauce, too. Wouldn't that be great?
Do you see what a bit of food detox does to a guy who wouldn't hurt a fly?! (Well.... I don't know about that... maybe with some hot sauce...) But I won't give up. I will succeed, nay, I will prevail. I will be worthy of a real certificate. One that says,
|Here's to the Missus. Yes, I'm drinking water.|
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