People have been asking me how my "I'm gonna be down below 200 lbs by midnight on New Year's Eve or kill myself, sticking my head in an oven with some cinammon rolls cooking, thrown in there for humiliation's sake" plan is going. And I gotta admit, it's not going at all, really. I pretty much forgot all about it the moment I rolled up my double deep-fried country fried steak beef ravioli burrito and used it to press the "publish" button on the computer that day. So now that summer's here, I got my hair cut and I'm determined to get a woman, I'm employing a disaster plan. Hey, fat times call for drastic measures no?
STARTING MONDAY (and not a second before), I will spend the following 30 days completely without the fallowing:
BEER: "But Xmastime," you say in your Ironhead Heyward (RIP) voice from those soap commercials, "how else will you become a massive, brooding dickhead in bars, picking stupid fights and then giving some young lass the pleasure of your wilted, sleeping whiskey-dick?" Fear not, wee ones...I said beer. Not alcohol. Don't worry, I'll still wake up at 4am in Coney Island, last train on the L, wander outside, piss in an alley and get back on the right train...then wake up 3 hours later in Coney Island, last train on the L....30 days without beer? Last time I did that?...prolly in boot camp. 1992. And yes, I kindly accept your "thanks" for helping to provide the very blanket of freedom you will sleep under tonite.
CHINESE FOOD: I mean, enuff is enuff. I plan on getting a frantic call by Wednesday "Whaa ahhh yuuuuuu???!! you okaaay??!! we migh haffa shut dowan!!!" Chinese food can't be good for you. Well, the shit I order, anyways. And let's be honest, I'm getting more and more leery of using my hard-earned American ducats for the Chinese Revolution that I can hear every one screaming about into their cell phones every time I take the Chicken bus. Not on my dime, Wang Jin....not....on....my....dime.
FAST FOOD: this will be tough. I admit this. But then, when I'm talking fast food I mainly mean french fries, which I'm sick of anyways. I think my next fry will be my one millionth, which means I'm in the FF Hall of Fame...do I even taste these things any more? No. I don't taste them, I don't enjoy them, yet they leave me shitting ribbons and slogging bloated throughout the next hours, a brick of grease in my gut. All for about $2...greeeeeeat. Why don't I just down a few shots of Ex-Lax and then give myself a bear tranquilizer in a steam room after swimming the 4 x 100 in warm milk? ugh. No more.
SODA: same as the fries..why do I even bother any more? Great, for $1.50 I can suck on some plastic, add traffic on the Coke website to see that no, as usual I didn't win shit under the bottlecap, then stay up for 19 hours watching lights go on and off from the corners of my eyes. Blech. On a side note, seriously, when are we gonna invent fake titties that dudes can carry around, just to have with them? Anybody on that yet? I mean if they're fake, seems like I could put 'em ona peg board, feel them when I want to, no?
Anyways, we'll see. 30 days. I already tested myself - went to a McDonald's for lunch. That's right - I walked right into the belly of the beast. Wallowed in the wafting of the beef tallow, saw the McNuggets hanging out in the back singing doo-wop and desperately trying to impress me so I'll choose them. Barrels of Coke, wheeled by me as Double Quarter Pounders assumed "oh, the usual!" and started out the door, heading to my place. No no, I said. Not today. Ranch chicken salad. Walked out, walked home, ate it.
A big first step, even if basically this meant I was eating a bowl of ranch dressing, fried chicken and bacon bits, but still. A step!!! So starting Monday. We'll see.
3 comments:
killin me.
Drink only water..that's it. Water. Best thing for you. You will see. try the zucchini with diced tomatos over 1/4 box angel hair pasta. mmmm
Haircut...good. Like the haircut.
Jacob Marley approves.
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