Spit Out That Fry! Drop And Give Me Ten, Fatboy!

I, for one, am tired and irritated at my local television news station. Every night, and I mean EVERY might, they have a viciously happy, finger-pointing story about some weight related topic. With evil glee, the anchor team exPOUNDS the newest information on the fat, Ugly American. Nowadays, I keep a gorilla mask in my car for a quick, furtive drive-thru at the unholy golden arches. Thanks to all the low-carb hype, I now understand the guilty pleasure of being a patron of something considered the slimy underbelly of society. "Greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes", I have become the Aqualung pariah of the Food Police. ( Thanks, 2blowhards for the inspiration here!)

Every aisle in the grocery store is a-shine with neon lights; gaudy pulsing lighted arrows directing lemming-like shoppers to the sanctity of low-carb cookies, chips, dressings, and assundry other foodstuffs I never knew had such large amounts of that evil menace: (hissing sound) c-a-r-b-s. Menus have changed overnight to reflect America's worship at the protein altar.

In line at the little one-stop shop in my office building, I watch as people hide Snicker bars underneath Dr. John's Healthy All-Beef Breakfast Bars, whispering to the clerk to be quick about her sacking. Later, I imagine these lowly carb-eaters announcing an important search that is required in the back file room, tucking the chocolate-covered peanut delight into a pocket and chewing it hastily in the dark recesses of metal cabinets, the empty wrapper stuffed inside a dusty box on the top shelf marked "1998 Check Stubs & Miscellany". A quick chomp on a protein wafer to disguise the sugar breath, and back to their desks where they sit and dream of warm lattice-crusted pies with melting vanilla ice cream creating rivulets through the thick golden slices of Grannie Smith's.

Wake up, children, and look around you. Mother Nature is at her best in the summertime: plump, ripe tomatoes are pulling at their vines; juicy red watermelons all afloat in ice water just waiting for your thump; sweet, fragrant peaches softly fuzzed; fresh new potatoes smelling faintly of the farm field dirt. To quote Templeton, the rat, life is a smorgasbord, orgasbord. Why all the self-flagellation and misery? A little common sense, and a salt shaker is all you need.

I shall not go gently into this goodnight of low-carb madness; with every breath I will be thankful for the bounty of the farmer, and the magic of home-baked goodness. And, I will bite back my "I told you so's" when you find your get-up-and-go has got-up-and-went. Feeling a little faint, a little weak in the knees? Take two chocolate chip cookies and call me in the morning.