Day Three - I've Got to Pee

One thing about being back on an Opti-Fast regime is the peeing. Lots of it due to the liquid nature of the diet. Two shakes and one soup everyday in addition to the normal load of tea and water. My bladder is one happy (and fully distended) organ. No one really likes discussing their urination habits, unless you find yourself trapped near a group of pregnant women (while waiting for your annual pap smear, etc.). I've heard more salacious urination stories from the mouths of pregnant gals than from the volumes of kinky porn an ex-boyfriend collected as "serious art."

I always sigh when I'm done peeing. I guess it's the relief of knowing my bodily FIFO system (first in, first out) still works after all of these decades. Tomorrow I'll discuss the fine points of defecation. :-)

Deja Fucking Vu All Over Again

I've been absent for quite some time now. Too busy feasting like Jabba the Hut on everything from whoopee pies to bacon-encased meatloaf. But as John Donne once wrote (probably in a delirious fog of cocaine and jelly beans): "For whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee." Well, my "bell" sits right atop my thighs and it's called my big, fat ass. It's been "tolling" for a couple of weeks now as it grows the size of Newark, NJ. So, I'm back on an Opti-Fast regime. Vanilla shakes (yum, and better than eating my neighbor's spleen) and all. I will record my innermost musings from time to time, mostly in an attempt to divert my attention from eating my neighbor's cat. My ups, my downs, my rants, and my cravings will be duly noted on this blog. It will be raw and, at times, difficult to read (just like anything Stephanie Meyers writes), but it will be real. Stay tuned...

Passive Feeder

I was reading about the basking shark today whose mouth is the size of NASA's super guppy cargo hold. I kid you not. This shark's open mouth resembles the Piccadilly tube station stop in London. My point is it's a passive feeder. It unhinges its jaw and allows millions of plankton to unknowingly drift into it's unassuming death trap. I, too, have become a passive feeder. Allowing bits and baubles of cheese, almond crackers, M&M relics discovered nestled in my couch cushions, etc., to, somehow, find their way into my freakishly-large mouth. Maybe I'm a basking shark.

Putting Frosting on a Turd Doesn't Make it a Chocolate Eclair

Ok, so I'm on this Zone home-delivery "health maintenance" plan where some dude in a Toyota Corolla delivers two black, insulated "body" bags to my doorstep every few days. Lying in wait within those bags are enough cruciferous vegetables to make the Jolly Green Giant clean as a ne'er blown whistle. Don't get me wrong, I actually enjoy the sound a large stalk of steamed cauliflower makes as it abrades the delicate lining of my esophagus. But that's not the point of my ramblings. You will recall the words "frosting" and "turd" appearing together in the title of this post. That, in and of itself, should make all of you die just a little inside. The mere mention of a frosted turd is, in my estimation, even more cringe worthy that witnessing my Spandexed backside in a series of carnival distortion mirrors. Let me get to the point. You can dress up a radish, trim it with that cute little paring knife of yours until it resembles a rose from your mother's wedding bouquet, but it's still a little crunchy red ball that lives in the dirt. Same goes with dessert. A slice of apple with some fat-free mascarpone cheese slathered on top ain't no French macaron. Now back to my wood chips and hay dip.

  

Of Mice and Meme

Okay, I realize the title of this post doesn't implicate food at all - unless you're of the sort who dabbles in the Disneywellian fantasy of skinning Mickey Mouse alive and serving him on bone china with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti. I, in fact, did have such brutal thoughts upon encountering said rodent on my last Disney cruise. Don't get me wrong. Me loves a regular diet of Belgian chocolate strategically placed upon my overly-plumped pillow each night. (although the Flemish seem to think that once you touch the brown stuff, it, effectively, dies. Yes, melting is such sweet sorrow, isn't it?) Moreover, I'm not disinclined to devour three filet mignons and four lobster tails during the appetizer course.

But I got to thinking. Thinking about eating other people/animalishs. Caution: never (I repeat NEVER) broach this subject while sitting at a table surrounded by twelve Mormons who fail to see the inherent humor in cannibalism. Anyway, I got to thinking: who would I eat first? My daughter, my cat, Chutney, the members of my HOA Board? No, I came to the conclusion I'd eat Disney characters in said order: (1) Mickey - he seems thick around the middle - I could survive a while on that rat fat, (2) Elsa (Frozen) - she's well preserved - just some salt and lime and she's good for months, (3) Maleficent -  if I can't pronounce their name - they're toast - literally; and (4) Donald Duck - 'nuff said.

I encourage everyone to make a list and keep it in a safe place. You never know when your hunger will get the better of you!

Three Men and a Baby

I know it's been awhile since I've posted. I've been too busy eating my way through 2015 to care, frankly. The title of this post says it all: I ate the equivalent of three men (short, pudgy ones) and a baby (the butter-thigh kind) last night for dinner. AND I'M DAMN PROUD. Enough of foraging through the urban forest for twigs and berries. I want PIG! I'll even eat the snout and hooves if you let me. Cartilage does not deter. Slather me with Mac and Cheese and then wrap my body in bacon. I have nothing more to say except FRIED SNICKER BARS.

Wheat-Free + Meat-Free = Homicidal Me

Ok, not the kind of homicide perpetuated against humans. No, I mean the Pavlovian sounds my salivary glands make every time Chutney the cat slinks by. I have fallen that low. Months of sporadic adherence to the anti-Christ of all things named "Franks," "Ham," and "Turducken" has made me hot for my cat's meaty thighs. I'm a carnivore at heart. Even a reluctant cannibal, if the circumstances warranted the forbidden bloodlust. I just have to face it. Rice noodle Mac & Cheese with Tofu bits disguised as Pork Pig doesn't float my culinary boat. I like the sound of teeth ripping through flesh. Not my own - yet.