If you take a statistical sampling of diet tips from a few dozen people, you will learn that every single possible foodstuff is terrible for you; water may be poisonous in small doses; and that the only “real” way to lose weight and get into shape is to make your daily caloric intake consist of the following:
1) 3 eggs;
2) A perfectly round piece of chicken that has been twice-boiled;
3) A spoonful of salmon fat;
4) A 45 single of Barry Manilow’s “Mandy”, covered in hummus and diced peanuts.
I’m beginning to think that everyone I know may actually be insane.
So my theory is this: I’m going to try to keep a 2 to 1 ratio of vegetables to meat or higher. I’m going to stop drinking sodas (which I mostly have, even diet, unless I’m in a place where it’s soda or whiskey). I’m going to pretend that chocolate is made out of hydrochloric acid and will actually burn me if it enters my body. If I need something sweet, that’s what bananas are for.
I know you’re about to tell me that bananas have sugar in them. You’re probably also going to tell me that some scientific article you read says that bananas give you rickets or the King’s Evil or something.
Fuck off. Eating an entire bunch of bananas, complete with the tarantulas that illegally immigrated amongst their leaves, is better for me than a single Chocodile, which is my sick and sad weakness when stopping in for smokes at 7-11 of an evening. So quit your weird gastrological nonsense, which you probably got out of an old copy of Maxim or Stuff you were leafing through while waiting in the doctor’s office for the results of your herp test. So you were freaked out and YOU DON’T EVEN REMEMBER WHAT THE ARTICLE REALLY SAID, BECAUSE YOU WERE TOO WORRIED ABOUT HAVING TO REGISTER ON HERPES DATING SITES TO GET YOUR SEXY TIME ON.
Also, no more mocha lattes, which is a punishment described to Dante Aligheri by Virgil as being meted out to New Media Fuckheads in the Fourth Circle of Hell.
(And yes, they had New Media Fuckheads in the Dark Ages. What do you think Johannes Gutenberg was? He sat around in the coffeehouse in Mainz all day, tapping away on his printing press in his designer horn-rims and hoping chicks would ask him what the hell it was and what he was doing with it. Which was writing a novel about a guy who invents a printing press and then moves to Bali to discover the glories of untrammeled nature, while getting coke-fueled blowjobs from Merovingian raver girls in leather jackets.
Alas, like the dreams of all New Media Fuckheads, this didn’t work out for J-Gut, so he put on a suit and got rich printing Bibles instead. But I bet you he thought about that novel ’till the day he died.)
Back to work now.