I'm resting my computer on my turkey belly. I will have to admit that, because of my added girth, typing has become more easier, as the keyboard softly touches the bottom of my man boobs. This, however, has brought me to one conclusion.
I must starve myself.
I must now commence on the self-loathing path that takes me to the "oh no my bones are showing, what's a carbohydrate, model diet". I must now prepare for the runway. I cannot wait to eat my first head of lettuce...my first lonely tomato...my first stick of carrot without the ranch...I must learn to love celery...I must learn to love green tea.
I must laxative myself. Maybe a colon cleansing? (Yes, I just said "colon cleansing"). That is probably the solution for I feel like I've got a Volkswagon in my gut. Or maybe I should just download Sarah Mclachlan on my IPod, meditate about Kate Moss and eat my finger.
So long pecan pie.
Goodbye potato salad.
You will be missed cranberry sauce.
And turkey...with your dressing, so moist and cornbready...you will be a fond memory.
But now my stomach yearns for 30 minutes a day on the eliptical. I must throw in a curl. I must hurl.
I must shave my head, shave my beard, put on my spandex riding shorts. I must, once again, hear an "ooh" and an "aah" from my girlfriend instead of a "Mom, I didn't know we were close to an ocean" from frightened little children. (I keep getting these voice mail messages from Paul Watson, "I love you, and I'm fighting for you.")
Instead of the behemoth I have become, I must now become a moth.
I will sweat and sweat until my glands run dry.
I will become emaciated. I'm putting a poster of Steven Tyler on my wall as inspiration. That crack abused look is my desire, for it's been so long since I've seen my ribs. Besides I like scarves anyway.
A diet of worms and sand will become my smorgasbord of appetite killing calories.
But hark...a heralded angel is calling me. I hear a jingle bell. The big, fat, replacement Jesus is yelling at me "HO, HO, HO."
Now I'm having visions of Thanksgiving the sequel...which is called Christmas.
More pecan pie.
Maybe the introduction of the heart killer ham.
More potato salad.
Sigh.
Can you say New Year's resolution?
by Timothy Lewis Kegley
I must starve myself.
I must now commence on the self-loathing path that takes me to the "oh no my bones are showing, what's a carbohydrate, model diet". I must now prepare for the runway. I cannot wait to eat my first head of lettuce...my first lonely tomato...my first stick of carrot without the ranch...I must learn to love celery...I must learn to love green tea.
I must laxative myself. Maybe a colon cleansing? (Yes, I just said "colon cleansing"). That is probably the solution for I feel like I've got a Volkswagon in my gut. Or maybe I should just download Sarah Mclachlan on my IPod, meditate about Kate Moss and eat my finger.
So long pecan pie.
Goodbye potato salad.
You will be missed cranberry sauce.
And turkey...with your dressing, so moist and cornbready...you will be a fond memory.
But now my stomach yearns for 30 minutes a day on the eliptical. I must throw in a curl. I must hurl.
I must shave my head, shave my beard, put on my spandex riding shorts. I must, once again, hear an "ooh" and an "aah" from my girlfriend instead of a "Mom, I didn't know we were close to an ocean" from frightened little children. (I keep getting these voice mail messages from Paul Watson, "I love you, and I'm fighting for you.")
Instead of the behemoth I have become, I must now become a moth.
I will sweat and sweat until my glands run dry.
I will become emaciated. I'm putting a poster of Steven Tyler on my wall as inspiration. That crack abused look is my desire, for it's been so long since I've seen my ribs. Besides I like scarves anyway.
A diet of worms and sand will become my smorgasbord of appetite killing calories.
But hark...a heralded angel is calling me. I hear a jingle bell. The big, fat, replacement Jesus is yelling at me "HO, HO, HO."
Now I'm having visions of Thanksgiving the sequel...which is called Christmas.
More pecan pie.
Maybe the introduction of the heart killer ham.
More potato salad.
Sigh.
Can you say New Year's resolution?
by Timothy Lewis Kegley
Not really sure what to think about this one. I doubt you would ever be serious about any of those destructive things; though, it was clever.
ReplyDeleteHmmm...
Satire is a legitimate way to approach an issue. I think that taking the post as a whole, the joke is on me and my voracious appetite and a society at large that puts too much emphasis on "thin". However, while bulimia is a very serious issue, the surrounding culture is clownish in the demands it makes, however ambiguous, on some.
ReplyDeleteMe desiring an "emaciated look" is obviously meant to be funny and not to be taken seriously...much the same way that the big, fat, replacement Jesus, just as obviously, in no way replaces the REAL Jesus. Although in our culture, and in our holiday norms, he practically does.
And that's what the post is about. Making fun of what is, by exaggerating what isn't.
It's a caricature of me and culture.
Besides, if folks with opinions worried about EVERY little thing that might offend...then nothing would be said.
Good stuff Tim! My family and I were traveling this year. We had Thanksgiving at Cracker Barrel. Unfortunately I didn't get overstuffed on Turkey. But this is probably the first year I didn't! Glad to see you blogging. Looking forward to reading your thoughts friend.
ReplyDelete