Dateline: 01/14/99

THE MIKE DURRETT SHOW Today's Episode: My Diet Diary or 50 Days to Lose Your Blubber or Bring Me the Curd of Chester Cheetah

The Last Straw

The day before yesterday, stumbling out of my sleepy, early morning fog, the first thing I remembered was punching the TV button "off;" except there was no button. All I knew was I had to get that humongous monster out of my view. I hate The Jerry Springer Show. Where does he find these people? I couldn't take another jowl.

I punched around some more before realizing there was no TV either. I was trying to turn off the bathroom mirror. That humongous monster was me.

My jaw dropped in astonishment, but not far. It couldn't -- too much flab. In fact, my jaw bounced up shut, causing me to bite my tongue and swallow my Gummi Bears.

Now, vividly awake, I could not believe what I saw in the mirror. Where was Mikey? The Mikey I remembered had facial angles. This impostor had a bloated Macy's balloon head with what looked like little eyes and a nose and a mouth on it. I couldn't really tell. They were obscured.

I considered going in for a closer examination, parting the flesh with my hands; then I decided I'd swing by the E.R. instead, and borrow their open-heart chest clamps.

What happened to me?! How did I get so immense?! Is there any pastry left?!

These were among the panicky questions I asked myself in front of the mirror, as I brushed away the brown-green Andes candy stuck to my cheek -- a rare escapee from the nightly box of mints I have placed on my pillow.

I guess I went and got big. Sitting at a computer day in and day out will do that. And, maybe, the mayonnaise on tap didn't help. I solemnly promise to use up the keg and switch to salad dressing. (I'm no bartender, but nothing quenches like Newman's Own Spritzers or a frosty Ranch Rocks.)

It's not as if I didn't see this weighty problem coming. Several weeks ago, in one of the Humor at The Mining Co. newsletters, I wrote:*

...I must tell you I've been experiencing some personal trauma lately... I can no longer button my pants. It is a sad, sad sight. I am one pathetic tubby. I'm too big for my britches, yet too studly for muumuus. What a conundrum.

True story... I was working here at the computer Tuesday. I sneezed and the button on my Dockers popped off, zinged across the room and almost took out a cat.

I will finish writing this letter and then go weep uncontrollably -- after I have sandwiches and pie, that is.

"Weep" might have been too strong a word. "Whining" is more accurate. I've been whining about my size for some time, avoiding the inevitable -- the dread diet and, it's sidekick, the dire exercise. D'oh!

Honestly, I've been fairly conscientious about my figure over the decades; although I haven't weighed myself in a year. Our bathroom scale broke. (Those aren't necessarily my footprints imbedded in it.)

In order to conduct a proper weight-loss program, I'd need some means of measuring poundage. I knew I had committed myself to diet, shedding unsightly slough, when I parked the car outside the store.

As I've mentioned here in the past, I do enjoy Wal-Marts, visiting one each Sunday to observe the Waddling Clueless Day festivities. Of course, Tuesdays-after-dark have their own magic, too. It's Hostile Sullen Teens Night!

"Excuse me, please, I just need to get one of those weighing machines," I said to the young lass blocking the shelves along with half a dozen of her most special drunken and natty Dr.-Seuss-hatted gentlemen callers.

She slammed me into the display, where I lost my balance and fell squarely onto a talking scale.

"Thar he blows!" said the scale.

After a darn cuckoo stopped squawking, I refocused, grabbed another scale, and limped around the youth pack.

"Gitjiggywitit." the girl slurred.

"Yes, ma'am." I went straight home, wiggled the handle on the toilet.

The Diet              Jan. 13: Day 1

I opened the packing carton and removed the new scale. It was time to note this diet's official starting weight.

I raised my feet onto the mechanism. The dial whirred and spinned, stopping on 182. Ouch. I'd never been so heavy in my life. I decided, despondently and wistfully, to drop 30 pounds. I want to see 152 again. Actually, I want to see my dimples again.

I meant business. I was committed to the cause. I would be svelte once more.

Immediately, I drove down to the gas station to purchase my farewell Chee-tos. Mmmmmm, nature's most perfect food.

I ripped into the bags and frenzied on curly fried snack treats. The packages proclaimed the ingredients to be "cheesy, very cheesy, and dangerously cheesy." I love a coagulated dairy culture that raises hell.

I savored the final orangy mouthful, taking a moment to speak teary, bittersweet goodbyes to my fondest F.O.C. (Friends O' Chee-tos): "Ferrous Sulfate, Folic Acid... I'll yearn for you. Extractives of Turmeric, and Annatto... so long, my beloved Turmy and Anna, until we Chee-t again."

Then I went to my mom's house and ate chocolate cake, drank Cokes, and tongue-tickled Tic-Tacs.

Then I went home for supper, chocolate ice cream, chocolate cookies, and chocolate chocolate.

Then I bought a bag of farewell Chee-tos.

184 lbs.               Jan. 14: Day 2

Obviously the plan was working. I'd only gained two pounds, not my standard five.

My heroic pledge: to combat calories is to be ruthless.

"Full speed ahead!" I cried. And then I finished off the Baby Ruths.

184 lbs.                Jan. 15: Day 3

Taking drastic action, I slashed my breakfast intake by 80 percent. Word traveled fast. By noon, A&P closed a hatchery.

To Episode Two: Son of Blubber  

---

About the Guide: Mike Durrett wants taffy.

What strange diets have you've suffered through? Leave a note on the Humor Bulletin Board.

The permanent URL of this article is http://humor.about.com/library/weekly/aa011499.htm.
*the humor.about.comedy news #26 (01/03/99)  ©1999 by Mike Durrett. Used by permission.

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