Tropical Fart

How bad is it that we’re so disappointed and bored in waiting for another mega-hurricane to rape the Gulf Coast that we now have to have special “Remembering Katrina” programs on television too?

Each time you channel flip, you’re bound to stumble across some historical retelling of the Hurricane Katrina tragedy and how some po' black folks got fucked - royally. If you’re lucky, there’ll be some rehashed footage of the many New Orleans victims broadcasts, or even a few meaty ‘Hurricane Crisis’ reports to boot!

Man, I miss that shit! It’s true, you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone. Who knew that the heavy metal hair band Cinderella could ever be so poignant?

Sure, sure, sure, Hurricane Ernesto is coming.

Big whoop.

It caused some flooding and damage in some remote pissant Caribbean islands…but who gives a flying fuck about people in thatched huts anyway? I sure don’t! Its not like we currently have any shortage of over-priced baseball players right now, do we? So by the time ‘ol Ernesto has wrecked a little more of its tropical havoc on a few more Cuban villages this week with its meek 40mph winds, it’ll just inevitably be a lowly Tropical Sneeze by the time it hits North American shores.

What a rip!

By all accounts so far, in comparison to last years Hurricane Katrina, Ernesto is about as frightening as a naked farm boy running through the countryside. Basically, it’s going to come and go with all the foul windy fury of Rosie O’Donnell after an ‘All-U-Can-Eat’ broccoli stir-fry.

Florida residents, following the media’s normal Doomsday proclamations, rushed to fill their prescriptions and stood in long lines for gasoline, food and other supplies Monday as state officials warned people not to wait for Tropical Storm…*giggle*…Ernesto to become a hurricane again before taking necessary precautions. Department stores and neighborhood shops are securing their windows and removing their reserves of blue jeans from the shelves and locking them safely away from prying eyes.

"Make sure you have the supplies for the 72 hours after the storm," Gov. Jeb Bush warned people in Tallahassee, a day after declaring a state of emergency for all Florida. "A hurricane's a hurricane, and it has a devastation we've already seen. All you have to do is rewind to last year and see." He further went on record by saying: "New Orleans taught us so much. No no-good starving looter bastard is going to get their mitts on our blue jeans!”

Weather forecasters said Ernesto could grow back into a hurricane in the warm waters off Cuba and come ashore in South Florida as early as Tuesday night, exactly one year after Hurricane Katrina pummeled the Gulf Coast. I can already sense the coming headlines:

“Get ready for ‘Hurricane Katrina II: The Beast Returns’”.

It would only be the first hurricane to hit the United States this year. That’s significantly less than the amount of storms that global naysayers have been predicting this year, huh? Where’s all our promised storm carnage?

Dammit! I DEMAND major flooding - and cars in trees while we’re at it - immediately!

Shit, even Al Gore threatened us all with stronger storms each year in his Eco-dramatic documentary ‘An Inconvenient Truth’. Maybe we should rethink this whole ‘Global Warming Theory’ thingee for a moment. It sounds to me like CNN has led us up the Primrose Path to Armageddon once again and then failed to deliver on the goods.

Anderson Cooper – you fuck.

Forecaster Richard Knabb at the hurricane center in Miami even urged people not to become complacent. "Just because the system is not a hurricane now, doesn't mean it can't be a hurricane later," he said.

He may as well have just stated: “Run, you crazy fuckers! Run!”

Besides, what kind of name is Ernesto? That hardly strikes fear into the hearts of men. Not that Katrina was any more vicious-sounding, but at least female names can be made to sound all bitchy. When you imagine Hurricane Ernesto in that frame of reference, you immediately picture some flaming transvestite dude in black nylons and a feather boa shaking his ass for drug money.

But not everybody is panicking. James Krie, 44, a Key West resident and general contractor, seemed unconcerned about the brewing storm. He acknowledged that outsiders might not understand.

"I feel like they look at us and say, `You dummies live down there,'" he said.

Fucking right we do, Jimmy. Without seeing your stupid ass flying through the air at 180 mph and embedding itself headfirst into a lamp pole, my summer TV viewing just isn’t complete!

The Yogurt Monologues (Part III)

It has officially been a month since I began this whole “lifestyle change” madness. I guess that means it’s about high time for another ‘Yogurt Monologues’ update then, huh? Another whole month worth of dieting gripes, bodily observations, and personal discoveries galore. So grab a hold of your stretchy pants and weight scales and lets delve into the wild world of healthy living, shall we?

To date, since beginning this personal journey, I have managed to successfully loose a whopping 20lbs of body fat - and I’m still focused, dedicated, and going strong *. Already I feel like one of those skinny ass motherfuckers that I normally scowl at when they pass by. I’ve managed to conquer my fear of spinach, discovered 101 things to do with avocados, fit more comfortably in theater seats, and am still dropping turds with gigantic Smithsonian proportions.

I’m losing weight so quickly in fact, that I now have to lather myself with Cocoa butter every morning in order to combat stretch marks. Hey, another purpose for Cocoa Butter! Who knew?

Freaky monkey sex here I come!

And speaking of freaky monkey sex, it was mentioned to me the other day that men who eat healthy also have better tasting sperm **. I’m not sure why that stuck with me as it did. Maybe because considering all the fruits and vegetables I’ve been eating lately, I might just have the tastiest junk on the planet. They sure omitted that little factoid from my high school Health class! There’s a claim to fame. I’d have that engraved on my headstone:

"Here lies Terry.
Tastes great, less filling.
R.I.P.”

I do know that this lifestyle change is working however, and not just because I can now see my toes without the use of a box periscope, but because I have become so conscious of what I put into my body. Even more telling is that I am equally aware of what other people are putting into theirs. It’s a delicate mental balance to say the least. On the one hand, I crave and subconsciously fantasize about all the hoagies, donuts, and bags of Doritos that I see other people ingesting, but there is also another part of me that recoils in disgust knowing the effect it is having on their body. Honestly - there have been nights I have woken up in cold sweats and an erection after having strange disturbing dreams of being smothered alive under mountains of cheesy slices of pepperoni pizza.

The latest development since my last diet update is the fact that I have now joined the gym. Yep! This poor fat bastard has strayed into the Land of the Fit and Beautiful; or what I like to call – ‘No Hams Land’.

I still enjoy my power walking trips in the evenings and I have even increased them in intensity. These walks now make the ‘March of the Penguins’ seem like leisurely strolls through the woods to Grandma’s house. But I needed something more, more…invigorating. Besides, my feet are now so badly callused that they more closely resemble hooves.

It’s quite an interesting place actually this YMCA gym. It’s not at all what I expected from listening to Village People records. Initially, I thought that by just stepping through the front doors meant you would automatically take to wearing leather and Indian headdresses and start offering to give olive oil massages in the showers. But it’s not like that at all. It’s no est Campo Homo. In fact, nobody gives a shit that you’re there at all – which is fine by me. I’m not there to give massages.

The people at the gym are strangely oblivious to all that is going on around them. And nobody ever smiles. Hey, if you’re going to stare at my unsightly belly bulge, the least you can do is return a smile when we exchange eye contact.

But I digress. I understand that it’s not supposed to be Happy Hour or anything.

Each person is instead, plugged into their headsets and goes about their sweaty business like muscled zombies. And it’s no wonder; should one choose to go without that music blasting in their ear, they would inevitably be serenaded with the sounds of grunts, groans, and the odd ill-timed squeaked out fart. Not exactly a soundtrack to motivate your workout! It sounds like a milking factory. This also means then that I have also rediscovered a new appreciation for jam music - Phish, moe, Disco Biscuits, Widespread Panic, et al. There’s just something about bloobidy-bloobidy-bloobidy-bloobidy for 20 minutes at a time that really puts a spring in my step and gets my heart racing. Maybe it has something to do with the increased levels of granola in my system.

I’m not just busting out farts – I’m busting out the phat jams, brah!

And so my workouts are becoming very emotional and intense. I just don’t saddle up to an exercise bike and go for a leisurely spin; I attack it like a crazed Viking. One of these times in the heat of battle, when my adrenaline is soaring higher than Floyd Landis’ testosterone count, I’m going to grab the machine, hurl it through the window, beat my chest like a gorilla and grab the nearest female before climbing to the roof to await the fighter jets. After one really intense workout, I was even brought to tears the likes of which haven’t been seen with me since Andrew Ridgeway left Wham!

I have pains now in my body that most Cold War Interrogation experts haven’t even discovered yet. I’m currently lurching around the office like Frankenstein. It hurts to fucking blink! I am on the verge of becoming a complete A535 junkie. Even worse, is that I have to now put up with everyone continually telling me “no pain, no gain”. I swear, the next person who feels the need to share this tidbit of wisdom with me, I’m going to kick squarely in the schiznits.

“How’s that pain for ya? Gain on that, motherfucker!”

I must be some kind of masochist to put myself through this. Just keep thinking about the freaky monkey sex.

It’s also a good thing that I have become accustomed to fluvia. There are more spent bodily fluids at the gym than Robin Williams’s locker towel. You can’t go 3 ft without tripping over a spray bottle and sweat cloth used to wipe down the exercise machines post workout. And here I thought they were for the encore presentations of the ‘Rocky Horror Picture Show’. But I’ve realized that truly inspired people don’t sweat – saline leaves their body heartbroken that the body no longer needs it.

Initially I was really nervous about going to the gym and being surrounded by. But I am happy to announce that I have a bigger penis than at least three of the muscle-bound gorillas I have seen at the gym. So, there must really be something to this whole natural living thing as opposed to muscle enhancers, special protein shakes, and steroids. Sure, I may still have an ass that looks like a bag of oranges, but at least my penis can be seen without the aid of a microscope. No wonder these buffoons still wear their underwear in the shower.

* I think the fact that I also haven’t killed anyone yet is rather telling as well.

** Definitely not a study I would ever want to be part of. I’ll stick to the Pepsi Challenge, thank you!

Lubed and Dangerous

Anyone who still watches the news will already realize that our national security alert has been changing colors lately more times than a manic depressive chameleon.

In the wake of the Lebanese-Israeli conflict and the recent foiled terrorist plot to kill thousands of airline passengers on the Trans-Atlantic route between the UK and the US, International air travel has once again been reduced to absolute chaos. Soon we won’t be able to fly anywhere unless we’re stripped naked and shackled to our seats with full body restraints.

The Transportation Security Administration changed its security screening procedures at all U.S. airports, banning all liquids and gels at security checkpoints and aboard flights. In addition, airport security is all but performing body cavity searches on its passengers making them more irritable than Simon Cowell with a bad case of Herpes. You can’t so much as pass gas without setting off some sort of security alert.

Personally, with all these new security measures, I’d rather crawl over broken glass to my destination rather than deal with all this screening bullshit. It’s like being processed into a German concentration camp. All that’s missing is the searchlight and patrolling guard dogs.

“Ve have vays of making you talk.”

Toothpaste and all liquids and gels - including shampoo, lip-gloss, perfume, hair gel, suntan lotion, creams, balms, beverages bought in the boarding area and all other items with similar consistency. Boy, it sure must be hell to be Tammy Faye Baker travelling these days!

My God! Whatever would I do on vacation without my Cocoa butter?

This all comes after London Metropolitan Police discovered stores of Acetone Peroxide, the same explosive used in the past July terrorist attacks on the London transport system. Otherwise known as ‘Mother of Satan’, acetone peroxide is a highly explosive crystalline powder with a distinctive acrid smell. Basically, it resembles something that Robert Downey Jr. would put up his nose.

Since then, airline security has been more than just a little on edge.

So much so, that they are pulling over planes now left, right and center. In Boston, a plane was escorted by a fighter jet and grounded at Logan International Airport when a “suspicious” passenger was spotted with Vaseline, a screwdriver, and matches. Shit, that sounds what McGuyver would pack on an ordinary singles getaway. I would have loved to have heard the actual distress call issued from the pilot to the Logan air control tower at the time:

“Logan, we have a suspicious passenger on board. We suspect that he may be lube and dangerous. We request immediate backup.”

What was he going to do exactly that was so suspicious? Unjam a stuck bathroom door? Make someone’s glasses really, really wobbly? Fix the fold-down table on the seat in front of him? I don’t get it. I have all those things in my apartment. It may raise the odd eyebrow from people who check out my medicine cabinet, but it doesn’t make me a terrorist.

Another plane flying from Gatwick Airport in London to Hurghada, Egypt was diverted to Brindisi in southern Italy after it was mysteriously suspected that a bomb was onboard. No bomb was ever found, nor could any worthy explanation be given over how this came to be suspect exactly. And it doesn’t end there! A 59-year-old woman caused a security scare when she allegedly passed notes to crew members, urinated on the floor and made comments the crew believed were references to al Qaeda and the September 11 attacks on a London-to-Washington flight this past Wednesday. Honestly, when did a little piss hurt anybody? What was she going to do – threaten national security by giving the pilot a Golden Shower? And a West Virginia airport terminal was evacuated this past Thursday after two bottles of liquid found in a woman's carryon luggage twice tested positive for explosives residue. The bottles were moved by robot to the to a remote area of the airport where officials attempted to detonate them. They did not however go - BOOM! Chemical tests later in the day instead turned up no explosive, and the airport was reopened after nearly 10 hours.

Congratulations, retards. You detonated breast milk.

Has the world gone mad? It seems that we’re now stuck in this quagmire of paranoia and sinking ever deeper. Lets look at where this may have started to go wrong.

• First we banned Cat Stevens to Britain by the American Homeland Security because his activities “could be linked to terrorism”.
• Next, the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) issued the brilliant security measure to ban all raw and lightly cooked hamburger airports and onboard aircraft – along with other such diabolical instruments of terror as lighters, knitting and darning needles, metal pointed umbrellas, plastic butter knives, and box cutters.

Personally, I’m more worried about the guy with the belly full of raw hamburger and a set of knitting needles. Ever witness the effects of hamburger in someone’s colon at 35,000 ft? To me, THAT’S the bigger threat. Not some dipshit with a tube of lube and a Phillips screwdriver!

We fucked up the moment we banned the Cat. That alone was enough bad kharma to last us a lifetime.

The Movie Guy

I met an individual today who must be the most annoying individual on the face of the earth. Someone so aggravating that merely just writing about him is making my blood boil *. I’d be more inclined to discuss Middle Eastern politics with someone throwing puppies into a wood chipper than this moron.

I dread going into ‘Blockbuster Entertainment’. I’m convinced it is the epicenter from which all stupidity on this God-forsaken rock we call a home radiates. You don’t have to be a Sam Rothstein.to figure out the odds of bumping into some poor dipshit, with the IQ of a hood ornament, is pretty fucking good. But unfortunately, it’s the only video rental store in the entire area that carries anything more than the latest Adam Sandler train wreck.

For the past year or so that I’ve been visiting this particular ‘Blockbuster Entertainment’, I’ve avoided one particular clerk like I would avoid steeping road kill. The contemptible ‘Movie Guy’.

I’m convinced that every video store has one of these dipshits lurking in its aisles ready to jump out at you to make a recommendation, or browbeat you with a detailed cinematic breakdown of the latest foreign film release.

These type of movie know-it-all’s bother really me.

True – I’m no Gene Siskel, but I like to think I still know the basics to making any good video rental choice. Adam Sandler is evil, the third installment in any movie series is bound to be absolutely unwatchable (even sequels have a 60/40 chance of being complete shit); and anything with Gary Busey or Brian Dennehy is likely to induce seizures. I’m confident that I am capable of finding something that won’t wilt my brain. But every now and again, I space out on the titles of the actual movies I want to see. It’s an old Frosh Week injury.

And so it happened today.

And, uh-oh, there was you-know-who laying in wait behind the counter grinning like a retarded chimpanzee.

I almost (and should have) walked out right there. But in the second it took to contemplate my options, Movie Guy locked onto my position. Either he smelled my fear, or recognized the confusion in my eye…but like a shark zeroing in on the scent of blood, he began to race towards me.

Now I know how a wounded and crippled porpoise feels.

“Hey. What’cha looking for?” he called out.

I know now that I should have lied. But, being the outwardly mindless simpleton that I am, I instead replied: “I can’t remember.”

“Was it ‘Crash’? ‘Cause that’s a totally awesome movie! If you haven’t seen it yet, you really should! The cinematograph…”

“No, it’s not ‘Crash’”, I interrupted desperately. I last thing I wanted to do was engage Moviezilla here in a deep artsy discussion on cinema-anything.

“Do you have a movie guide I could use by chance?” I asked hopefully. Maybe if there was a written store guide of some sort, I stood a chance of shaking Movie Guy loose.

But, of course, it was to no avail. Movie Guy wasn’t going to let me get away so easily. He had his teeth squarely in my ass.

“Who stars in it?” he continued.

Oh God. Here we go.

“Umm, that guy – the brother; not the brother with the funny nose, or any of the Baldwins brothers or Wayans. You know, the pouty one whose brother went tits up in his condominium earlier this year.” It was the best I could come up with.

“Sean Penn?” he smirked.

“Yeah, that’s him. The movie was named after some valley, or mountain pass, or body of water, or something” I added.

“Mystic River!” Movie Guy responded triumphantly. He looked as if he had just laid down a victorious trump euchre hand in his high school cafeteria.

“That’s the one. Than…” I begrudgingly answered.

He immediately cut me off… he was on a roll now.

“It’s in the Drama section, third row over, second from the top. It’s got a blue cover with a bunch of guys standing upside-down on it. Directed by Clint Eastwood, it was up for Academy Awards in 2006 for Best Actor, Best Supporting Actor, Best Supporting Actress, Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Screenplay…” he continued cockily.

Christ, make him stop already!

I ashamedly walked off towards the drama section to retrieve my film – but Movie Guy just stuck with me in hot pursuit rambling off his informational tidbits about the movie. Other customers in the store gawked at me sympathetically as they quickly rounded corners to avoid coming between me and Rainman here.

“It's a great murder story involving three interconnected central characters and an investigation that will dig up the neighborhood's scarred history,” Movie Guy happily chirped three feet behind me as I retrieved my flick from the third row, second from the top.

“If you like that then you’ll like ‘The Usual Suspects’. Have you seen ‘The Usual Suspects’? Now that’s an awesome movie! If you haven’t seen that yet, I’d recommend renting that instead.”

This clown wasn’t going to give up.

“Yeah, thanks”, I mumbled under my breath and began trudging back to the counter to check out my evenings movie de jour.

“How about ‘Requiem for a Dream’? Have you seen that? Now THAT’S a kick ass movie! I’d get that for sure! Whatabout ‘Forgiven’, huh? Clint Eastwood directed that movie too and it’s way better than ‘Mystic River’. Can I get that for you? It’s another two rows over, half way down, bottom shelf.”

I was ready to paralyze this guy with a flying head scissors right there in the middle of the store. Instead, I just mumbled “No. Thanks for the help.”

And here was the big moment; the moment he’d clearly been waiting for since the moment I first walked into the store:

“That’s, okay. That’s what I do…(wait for it)…I’m “The Movie Guy”. His face beamed like an Alter boy at a strip parlor.

I almost lost it.

That fact that this guy exists is the biggest travesty of injustice against mankind since Eddie Murphy was cast as Dr. Doolittle. Does this genetic grab bag of party favors really think I give two shits about his movie trivia skills? He’s lucky I didn’t leave him with a Schiavo-style feeding tube the moment he forced himself on me like a newly released sex offender.

“The Movie Guy”? Yeah, and I’m Batman - whatever jerk face.

So what is he so proud of anyway? That he’s wasted eons of his life in front of the boob tube watching movie, after movie, after movie, until his brain is overloaded with important movie information? He’s a walking, talking movie reference guide. That’s sure some bastion of achievement. It’s a good thing he saw that ad in the paper that they were hiring a minimum wage position at ‘Blockbuster Entertainment’, otherwise his gift to the world may have gone unrecognized! And that’s not a world I think any of us can imagine living in. How would we ever choose what movie to watch on Friday nights, or find out the title of the latest Pauly Shore straight-to-video release?

Imagine the chaos.

He can probably rhyme off the complete supporting cast to ‘The Bridges of Madison County”, but for all other aspects of life, this guy couldn’t outsmart a gardening tool.

Brav-fucking-o, douchebag!

After I had returned, he scuttled around behind the counter again to check out my movie for me. My chances of making a quiet getaway were lost for good.

“So, do you rent movies often? ‘Cause I can recommend lots of movies. I’m the Movie Guy you know”, he continued.

“No. Almost never”, I lied. If I didn’t get out of the store immediately I was going to go all Kaiser Soze on his ass.

“That’s funny. I thought I’ve seen you in here before”, he prodded.

I just looked up at him blankly, picked up my video and put it under my arm, and paused to bid him my fond adieu. The one-liners hurtled through my brain:

“Maybe. I pick them up for somebody else. I think movies are for pussies.”
“Nah, this is my first one. Real men watch porn.”
“Hey, do you date the Tooth Fairy?”

Instead, I said:

“Those guys on the cover aren’t standing upside down. That’s supposed to be their reflections cast in the river to mirror the shadowy duality of their characters. Everybody knows that. That’s what I do…”

And then the coup de tat:

“I’m the Asshole Guy.”

And I finally walked out.

* Given the hot temperatures outside these days, this is no major feat I agree. But consider that I’m currently sitting in a nice air-conditioned apartment with two fans running, it’s still pretty impressive.

The Yogurt Monologues (Part II)

It has been two weeks already into my diet.

Okay, it’s been less than two weeks; but I’m home now with a ligament injury and the combination of bran and red plums in my system are doing funny things to my head. However long it has been – it’s still going strong.

Being home today has given me a chance to really absorb* all that I have learned about this beast dieting. I am beginning to understand the mechanics of my own body and bodily functions better and how it all ticks. Most suprisingly is that it is completely possible for the human body to function without Haagen-Dazs, cheeseburgers, or Tim Horton’s double-doubles. Who knew? In fact, I am learning together all too much about my body and its functions.

For instance, since I have been eating more raw natural foods as opposed to fast food, I am now beginning to drop more regular solid turds. And I’m not talking about all those usual 2-second greasy Hershey squirts I normally pass I’m talking about enormous spires of earthy-colored crap here. Turds to make circus elephants proud. Every time I go to the bathroom now I have to clear my entire afternoon schedule. Bring a book, enroll in a college correspondence course, whatever, I’m not coming out for a while. It’s like I’m admitting myself into a Maternity Ward each time I feel my stomach rumble.

“Congratulations, Mr. Nash. It’s a turd.”

Besides this, I am also more conscious of the color of my urine. Yes, you read that correctly.

Usually, this is an aspect of my life that I would prefer to remain oblivious to. I figure I’m not alone in thinking this otherwise they wouldn’t put those flyers above the urinals at bars and restaurants. I’d just about prefer to look at anything besides my own stream of piss. Now, since learning that your urine’s clarity indicates the effectiveness of your body to clean itself out, I am fixated on noticing on how well I am flushing myself of ingested toxins. Not that dropping elephant turds isn’t enough. But now because I am consuming enough daily liquids to make any Bande Ache survivor more than a little anxious, I also have to piss like a racehorse every 10-15 minutes. This I don’t really mind this so much as any chance I get to fondle myself during the normal workday is an enjoyable experience. But I digress…

Unfortunately, by the time this whole new healthy lifestyle of mine completely takes over I will be able to detect over a dozen of different shades and hues of yellow. I’ll make any Interior Decorator seem almost colorblind.

But then again, considering the condition I return home in after my evening walk means that I am growing very accustom to fluvia. After 60 minutes of Nazi death marching around town in my stretchy fat pants, I’m sweating like the pig that knows he’s dinner. In fact, in a complete 24-hour period, my body now produces enough fluvia to top off any landfill. I live in a perpetually moist state. Aquaman isn’t as moist as I am these days.

Yep. Shit, piss, sweat, snot, what have you - so my day goes.

But even better than all this heady bodily goodness, the real fun in dieting comes, as usual, from other idiots who like to offer advise. Just like with being single, every moron with an opinion likes to chime in with his or her two cents on the subject. It’s enough to drive you to murder. I even had a guy that was easily three times my size tell me about his guaranteed formula for quick fat burning.

Yeah, I can see where that program is really working wonders for you, there, Shamu.

Why does everyone automatically assume that they are fitness experts? People with asses that look like they are shoplifting throw pillows are even drawn to offer me their pearls of dieting wisdom. From diet pills and prescriptions **, to grapefruit, to soup, to oolong tea – I’ve heard it all recently. My two personal favorites of such informational dieting tidbits are “eat smaller potions”, and “make sure to treat yourself regularly”.

Pardon?

Apart from the obvious, what kind of stupid advice is that? Isn’t that how I got in this fucking condition in the first place? I mean, maybe, just maybe, if I hadn’t been “treating” myself so much or helping myself to smaller portions all along I may not have had to put myself on this fucking diet in the first place! But thanks for the advice, dipshit.

One aspect of dieting I am still trying to get a handle on is that of making healthier decisions when it comes to eating. So far, I am doing well. No fast food, no carbonated soda pop, no overly fatty foods, etc. But lately, I have also been developing these random unusual cravings for stuff like…asparagus!

Good, God! It’s like I’ve been possessed.

It’s not a natural instinct to choose green beans and avocados over cheeseburgers. Where’s the dignity in that? I’m supposed to be a man, for fuck sakes! Men are supposed to eat red meat…not salad. You know who eats salad? Wilford Brimley…that’s who! And you just know Wilford Brimley isn’t banging any young hotties these days.

(to be con’d…)

* Not to mention healthy doses of garlic humus.

** Including Dexatrim, Thermatrim, Ubertrim, Advantatrim, Dietrine, Ephedra, Ma Huang, and a whole host of other funny sounding vitamin supplements, carb blockers, and fat burners, whatever - its speed. Two or three of these little babies and I’d be running around the office place naked and babbling like a madman. But some people are attracted to these miracle diet prescriptions like hippies to their phat jams.