As I mentioned last December, my New Year's resolution for 2006 is to lose weight. In the past, my preferred method of weight loss was a diet of my own styling called, “Day of Eating and Drinking.”
On the DEAD diet, I ate properly and drank only water for six days. On the seventh day-the Day of Eating And Drinking-I would eat and drink whatever I wanted. That day was usually one of absolute gluttony and drunken debauchery that began with bacon and eggs and a mimosa and ended in a pool of asada-speckled vomit.
I always considered the Atkins diet to be just another fad, but lately a lot of people around me have been losing weight relatively quickly and not suffering the hungers of the damned while they do it.
Shortly after the New Year, I obtained a copy of Dr. Atkins New Diet Revolution and was astonished to read that I can pretty much eat as much meat and fat as I wanted: Steak, burgers, buffalo wings, veal, chicken, ham, venison and even bacon-the fattiest, sodiumiest, triglyceridically packed food of all time-is OK to eat on the Atkins diet.
For me, bacon has always been the poster-meat for obesity and heart disease, yet according to Doc Atkins, you can eat bacon until the cows go homo and still lose weight, lower your blood pressure and reduce your cholesterol.
Reading this bacon revelation reminded me of a scene from the 1973 Woody Allen movie, Sleeper. Sleeper is your standard Orwellian Rip Van Winkle yarn in which the main character, Miles Monroe, wakes up from spending several hundred years in a state of cryostasis to find a vastly different future. One such difference is that science had determined that fatty foods, once thought bad for you (like bacon) were actually healthy.
And here I am eating all the bacon I want and actually losing weight and feeling healthier and, just like the cold, oppressive, post-apocalyptic future Miles woke up in, it just seems so wrong. Like the world has gone topsy-turvy or something. And whenever I take a gander at the goings-on around this planet, there's all sorts of evidence to support my Topsy-Turvy Theory.
Like last week, W. and I were in the Apple Tree market checkout line. I was perusing Star magazine, looking at pictures of Britney Spears in which-to my utter distress-she was all fat and pimply, with full-on double-chin action, chubby cheeks and thunderous bon-bon thighs. I stood there staring at the pictures thinking, Britney Spears is fat?! How can that be? Truly aghast, I read the accompanying article, which said Britney hadn't been able to lose her post-pregnancy pounds, and that she caught her husband cheating, and that it was just apparent to everyone that poor Britney is jogging in place upon the misery-loves-confectionary treadmill of despair.
“Honey,” I said, as W. finished loading the groceries on the conveyer belt. “I'm worried about Britney. That jerk Kevin Federline is treating her poorly, and now she's all fat and pimply.”
W. grunted something about my not helping her commute the groceries onto the conveyer belt and I replied, “But babe, don't you understand? Something is amiss with the universe.”
Yesterday I was watching Oprah getting all indignant with James Frey, the author of a novel she had endorsed in her Book of the Month Club, about all the deceptions he had perpetuated.
Everyone sees her as this wonderful, giving, sensitive, caring person, but all I ever see when I look at Oprah Winfrey is a rich man's Star Jones. She's just a fat, vacuous blob. That's what I usually see, anyway. However, this time, when she was interviewing Frey, I wasn't seeing her that way. I wasn't thinking about how it was only a couple of days ago that Frey was on Larry King Live, and Oprah called into the show to defend her little author-boy. I wasn't thinking about how Oprah Winfrey tried to put her seal of approval on the problem to make it go away. And when the problem didn't go away, she lurched off her position.
No, I wasn't thinking about any of these things. Instead, the whole time I watched the interview, I thought, Daaaamn, Oprah looks hot. She was all slimmed down and wearing form-fitting slacks. For the first time ever, I had this most horrifying thought: Wouldn't it be fantastic to fuck Oprah Winfrey? To have a scorching-hot, two-week whirlwind romance with her in the O mansion, taking her in every room, and in the basement, on the steps, in the courtyard, the attic, and on the dumbwaiter-up and down, up and down, up and-for the love of Christ, stop it!
Can't you see that something is very wrong here? How did we end up in a universe where Oprah Winfrey is hotter than Britney Spears? It's just all too weird. Like an omen or something. Like these are the first three of the seven signs of the coming apocalypse: Bacon is good, Oprah is thin and Britney is fat. And the whole thing has me all topsy-turvy.
I've identified three of the seven signs of the apocalypse, and now I'm looking around to see if I can find the other four. Like, perhaps, how Palestine democratically elected a theocratic despotic regime. Certainly that's a harbinger to be followed by a mushroom cloud. Or how President Bush recently asked for and answered questions (yes, questions) at a press conference (everybody get under your desks!). Then there's the dying-frogs issue, which makes a total of six signs of the apocalypse. There's still one more waiting to happen. What will it be, what will it be?
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