At the Riverwalk
I recently visited the fabulous city of San Antonio, Texas. The occasion was to watch my youngest son graduate from Air Force Basic Military Training. We had the pleasure of spending five days in what is truly one of my favorite cities in the United States. The people are wonderful, the food is amazing and the weather is a little humid, but not unbearable. Of course, anywhere you go there is the good, the bad and the awesome.
And in San Antonio, there is also the Alamo.
The Good- If you are a smoker, you can still pretty much smoke outside without risk of being tarred and feathered.
The Bad- Okay, I lied. It was the end of September, the humidity was unbearable, I was sweating like a bologna sandwich dancing to the oldies.
The Awesome- Cowboys and Airmen. Everywhere.
The Good- Military discount. Basically, with a soldier, four free entries-once per season. That rocks, Sea World. Really rocks.
The Bad- If you are not in the military, you should consider whether you want to have groceries for the next month. The price of admission for a family of four is $220 and that does not include parking or any of the teasers your kids will be screaming for once inside the pearly gates. For 220 bucks, I want to free Willy.
The Awesome- I got to see a Walrus. Kookookachoo.
The Good- After ten weeks, I finally got to see my baby boy again.
The Bad- You have to leave.
The Awesome- Getting to watch your son or daughter get the Airman’s Coin. A true proud Mom moment.
The Good- Go down one flight of stairs and leave the city behind. A beautiful network of walkways along the San Antonio River that winds around eclectic shops, museums and cafes. It’s like entering a different world. The Enchanted Forest of San Antonio.
The Bad- I was pulled from my mystical Riverwalk dream when I noticed the outline of a gun on the hip of another visitor. That’s when I remembered, I was in Texas, and everyone was packing– except me.
The Awesome- The margaritas. Everything’s bigger in Texas!
And then there was the Alamo…
First let me say I have been booted from a few places in my day. It’s not that I am a troublemaker, but more that I am…often misunderstood. But I was determined to be on my best behavior. Determined.
I am a history junkie. I have studied the Alamo and am pretty confident in my knowledge. And I had an audience—my two sons, one girlfriend and my husband, so I was talking the minute we walked in the doors.
“Shhh. Keep your voices down!” Was the first thing I hear from the snarky guide who, incidentally, yelled that bit from a microphone.
“Geez,” I said under my voice. “You’d think this place was a shrine or something.”
I shook it off, and continued to give my own tour to my family, albeit whispering, all the while, getting ‘that look’ from the keeper of the Alamo, Guardzilla.
Then I sinned. I took out my camera and snapped a shot.
“You cannot take pictures in here!” Her voiced boomed through the PA system, echoing off the walls.
“Oh, sorry. No one told me.” I was trying. Really trying.
“It’s right on the sign when you enter!” She was pushing. Really pushing.
“Sign? I didn’t see a sign.”
Hands on her hips. “Well, it’s right next to the one that says this place is a shrine!”
Okay, at this point, I did have to laugh, which wasn’t helping. I looked at my family, and they were bored, so I didn’t see the point in going much farther with the tour anyway. But I did want one more picture….
I understand that the big concern with picture taking involves the flash, so as a considerate tourist, I turned mine off. I also knew, for a fact, that the Alamo belongs to the state of Texas, which means the citizens of the state of Texas. Guardzilla was one of those citizens. I had two in my party. That, my friends, is called a two-thirds majority of the present voting population.
And she did. Using her superhuman hearing, she picked up on that tiny sound of my finger depressing the camera button. Flames shot from her eyes, and I could have sworn I saw a serpent slither from her ear. In a voice that would give Linda Blair nightmares, she screamed. “SECURITY!”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “We’re leaving.”
As I got to the door I couldn’t help but turn one last time to my new friend. With my index finger to my lips, I whispered,
“Shhh. Remember. The Alamo.”
So contrary to the rumors, I did not get kicked out of the Alamo. I left on my own.
And okay, maybe I am a little bit of a troublemaker.
A rare look at the inside of the Alamo. No flash was used when taking this picture, so I did no damage to the Shrine.
lGood friend and possibly the only gnome I actually know, Ben Ditmars, suggested that the castaways on Gilligan's Island were part of some kind of conspiracy. As he stated, " How far can a boat get in three hours? I think they could see a fire from Gilligan's Island in Hawaii." Hmmm. And that got me thinking. This wouldn't have happened to a real Skipper, unless, of course, there were other forces at play. I mean, Tom Hanks made it off an island with nothing more than a soccer ball named Wilson, so what if ...
1. Possibly, no-one on land actually liked any of the castaways. Of course they could see the fires, they knew exactly where they were. They probably took bets on how long it would take them to make it back to Hawaii, just three hours away. They had scrap from a boat and couldn't raft it for three hours?
2. The disappearance of the Minnow could have been an elaborate promotional stunt for Ginger's upcoming movie, "Ginger Goes Geisha". Why else would she wear that sparkly gold dress on a boat?
3. Who goes on a 'three hour tour' without checking the weather? And doesn't the word 'tour' indicate that they would stick close to the islands, as in 'touring' the islands and not head straight out to sea? What kind of a Skipper was he? Barbie's little sister in drag?
4. I still wonder about the nature of Skipper and Gilligan's relationship. Gilligan reminds me of a battered wife, and Skipper calls him 'my little buddy'. Maybe they planned the wreck of the Minnow, trying to find a way to escape the homophobia of Hawaii that kept them from expressing themselves as the couple that they were.
5. 'Professor' was a high school science teacher, his PhD was in Botany, and his reason for being on the Minnow was to do research for a book he intended to write titled "Fun with Ferns". Now, if you've ever done book research, 3 hours isn't enough time. And how many ferns are you going to have fun with on a boat? Sabotage. Professor needed time on an island for research, but needed others with him in order to survive.
6. I think it is possible that the Howell's were escapees from a mental institution and were completely delusional. There were several visitors to the island and none of them went back and reported that a millionaire and his wife were stranded on an island. Think about it. A reward for their rescue? No? They were broke, their exile to the island saved the taxpayers money in further psychiatric care.
7. Maryanne-always suspect the sweet, innocent one. And she was from Kansas. You can't trust those sweet Kansas girls.
8. I also wonder about sex on the island. Obviously, Skipper and Gilligan were happy together, the Howells slept in twin beds and Thurston snuggled a teddy bear. That leaves Professor to get freaky with Ginger and Maryanne. Oh yes, It was definitely the Professor that made sure the rescue never happened.
Got any good theories about Gilligan's Island? Share them here. Maybe we can shed some light on this impossible castaway situation.
Not a picture of me. :)
Although I usually blog about funny things, I want to take a minute to talk about something that is a bit more serious. Fat people. No I didn't say 'overweight' or 'obese' or 'big-boned' or 'diameter-challenged', I said fat. You can pick the word you prefer, but in the end, it's the same thing.
I prefer fat, because I earned that word. I was born fat, and when I was growing up, no-one teased me about being a little big boned, no-one called me obesey, no-one told me I should go on a diet because I was too <pick a pretty word>. Nope, I earned the word fat. And even when I'm 'skinny', I'm fat, because what a lot of people don't understand about those of us that were fat kids is that it is more than extra weight; it is a mental state, something a lot deeper than our subcutaneous, something that isn't as easily shed as a few pounds.
I will give you an example of that before I get to the gist of my current argument. When I am a size 8 (which is super skinny for me), men open doors for me quite frequently. Not so much when I'm a size 16. And any of my fellow yo-yo fat girls will agree--we notice this, and we know why. And it's not just opening doors, it's everything. We all know fat shaming and name calling is still happening in our society, and yet it's the subtle things that tend to bother me the most. Maybe that's just me. I doubt it.
But here is my current complaint. While there has recently been a big push toward the general population understanding the bullying that fat people have endured, there has also been an outpouring of fat people proclaiming that they 'love their fatness', 'love their bodies', etc. etc. etc. And while I do like to see the self-acceptance and the idea that things shouldn't always be about the way we look, I think we are doing two things by claiming we are 'okay' with our fatness. Number one, we are denying the fact that fat is a health risk that should be battled, and number two, we are lying.
Disclaimer to avoid 200 negative comments: A lot of us. I can't speak for all.
How often do you hear someone say "I don't care what anyone says, I love my heart disease! I am comfortable with my breast cancer! I am who I am and I like being a diabetic!" You don't hear it very often, in fact, most people who have a health issue do everything they can to cure it, or at least try to control it. What makes being fat different? The health risks associated with it are so great, I can't imagine anyone actually looking in the mirror and thinking, 'Yeah, I like that, because all that extra padding is getting me to a stroke quicker than Skinny Sue.' So why are we not looking at fatness as a health issue instead of a body image problem? Instead of accepting that we are 'big' we need to realize that in doing so, we are also accepting that we are unhealthy. And I personally can't accept that.
I know, I know, here come the comments from people who are fat but are 'healthy'. Trust me, I'm one of them. My doctor told me on my last visit I have the labwork, the blood pressure, the xrays of an 18 year old. He then proceeded to tell me that I wasn't doing myself any favors with the extra weight, because I was stressing all of my joints, and increasing my risks for heart disease, diabetes, and a list of about a zillion other things. So, healthy? No.
And that takes me to number two: we are lying. Oh, yes we are. We are lying and lying and lying. We do not 'love our fat', we battle our fat every single day. We mentally calculate everything we put in our mouths, we weigh ourselves a lot, we wonder how it's possible that we gained a pound by eating one cookie, or how we didn't lose a pound by jogging a marathon! We are experts at calculating calories in our head. We think about it all the time. Don't believe me? Then tell me how the diet industry in the United States is a MULTI-BAZILLION DOLLAR INDUSTRY! There are diet aids, diet pills, diet plans, diet clinics, diet clothes (really?)---you name it. And who do you think is buying all of this crap? Skinny people? Not hardly. It's the fatties who are telling you they 'don't really care' or they are 'fine with their bodies just the way they are', and then opening that unmarked package that just arrived with the new magic drops. Maybe this is the one that will finally work?
SO, here is my proposal. Let's take the visual out of this. All of you fat shamers that just don't like the 'look' of fat people, back off. Honestly, I've heard every joke, every name, every catty remark that you can possibly come up with. Your insults just aren't very original any more. Really, if you haven't grown up fat, you have no idea what we have gone through. Sure, all it takes is 'diet and exercise', but what you don't realize is that those of us who have battled this since childhood have felt so pressured to please your ideal of perfect that we have screwed up our metabolisms, we have OD'd on medications that have damaged other organs, we have basically screwed ourselves. But we are still trying. What you CAN do is help us focus on the health aspect of our problem. And if you want to laugh at us for trying every new pill or shot or magic spell that comes on the market because all we really have to do is 'diet and exercise', then I say this to you: Quit buying lottery tickets. There is no quick way to get money. Just work hard.
Yeah, that isn't going to happen.
And my fellow sisters of the fat, can we admit that we need to do this for our health, and not necessarily because we want to achieve a certain look? Of course, we'd all like to love that body in the mirror, but can it be about more than that? Can it be that we want to be around to see our grand kids grow up? Can we openly admit that we don't 'love our fat', that it has haunted us for years and we try, we really try, but we aren't going to stop trying? If we think about it from the health angle, maybe, just maybe, we'll stay at the bottom leg of the yo-yo just a little bit longer this time.
And can we PLEASE stop telling our kids that being a little bigger is okay? Do you think that condemning a child to a life of constant dieting (which they will do someday), the ridicule they will have to endure from the fat shamers (because they will never go away) and the health problems they are bringing on themselves is doing them any favors? Would you hand them a cigarette and tell them it's okay if they like it, because we are all special and different? Come on. Stop making this so easy.
So, with all of that said, I'm starting on another 'diet wonder' next week. Let's see how this one works out. Of course, at the age of fifty, I'll say this is possibly diet number 100-ish for me, and although I'm sure I'll lose with the latest 'diet magic', it's always the 'keeping it off' part that is challenging. But, I'll let you know how this one works.
And maybe next week, I'll go back to being funny.
While cute and cuddly, baby Alots do grow!
Every college instructor feels that their class is the most important class you will ever take. Of course, as a student, you should never make them feel that you believe differently, at least not if you want to pass their course. However, English IS the most important class you will take in college. And I'm not just saying that because I teach it.
1. When you make a resume and apply for a job, employers do like to see that you are capable of making complete sentences and that your sentences are coherent. "I be graduated with degree and work reel hard for you," is not going to impress anyone. Neither is your improper and overuse of the word 'plethora' or your claim that you 'did alot' (see below).
2. Knowing the correct way to express yourself may keep you from being seen as a total freak. 'I like to cuddle alot' is not a great pickup line. "A lot" is two words. Alot is a large, furry animal that requires constant care, usually smells bad, and at any time, is known to host an estimated one thousand blood sucking ticks. Know the difference.
3. Studies show (informal ones with biased opinions) that people who write well get more dates. Other studies (possibly real ones, but still conducted in bars) show that people who can effectively frame and present an argument are less likely to be deemed an a**hole by their friends and colleagues.
4. Knowing how to punctuate correctly MAY
keep you out of jail:
I have some time to kill. Anyone? OR I have some time to kill anyone.
keep you from getting fired at work:
I called the guests' names. OR I called the guests names.
get you interviewed by the local paper:
I saw a man eating octopus. OR I saw a man-eating octopus.
get you invited back for family dinners:
I want to eat, Grandma. OR I want to eat Grandma.
save your life! (Or mine):
So I went to see this girl last night and while I was there a car wreck happened outside and I stopped to watch but nothing exciting was happening so I went and talked to her but she was really boring so I went back home because my alot is big and cuddly and I would rather be curled up with him watching an episode of Honey Boo Boo than with some girl that doesn't like football and... (Please. Pause. Take a breath. You are going to pass out and my head is going to explode)
5. There is no calculator you can use after college for your writing skills.
6. But most importantly, almost every other course you take in college will require you to write a paper or at least answer an essay exam. Guess where you learn how to do that?
Here is my promise to my students:
You will learn something. There's a chance it may actually be related to English.
I will not treat you like children, however, I may force you to watch Schoolhouse Rock.
Since this is a non-football season semester, I will have nothing to do but focus my attention on your papers. I will read every word. Make each one count.
WISHING EVERYONE A GREAT SEMESTER!
It's that time of year again when a lot of people are questioning whether they should or should not get a flu shot. The biggest excuse I have heard from non-flu shot advocates is 'I got the shot and still got the flu'. Of course, there are reasons why this could happen, however, I have discovered that a lot of people don't really know what the flu is, and every time they get a sniffle, they claim to have the flu. So in Jeff Foxworthy style, I thought I'd help those of you out that are too wrapped up in your influenza conspiracy theories to actually research it and find out the severity of the symptoms. Here we go:
Flu symptoms are very severe. It's not a 'bad cold', and it can lead to pneumonia and death. Take it seriously. If you have any of the above symptoms, please see your doctor. If you have more than one, wear a mask and a Depends when you go to his office.
- fever-If the possibility of sticking your head in a cooler full of ice has occurred to you, you might have the flu.
- chills-If you are wearing three sets of thermals, sitting in front of an open flame, wrapped in an electric blanket, drinking fire and you are still cold, you might have the flu.
- headache-If you can feel your hair growing, and it's painful, you might have the flu.
- muscle aches-If your finger hurts every time you push a button on the remote control, you might have the flu.
- ear pain-If listening to Lionel Richie's greatest hits nonstop for 24 hours seems like a better alternative to your current ear pain, you might have the flu. You might also be deaf.
- weakness-If you have made a bed on the bathroom floor, you might have the flu.
- loss of appetite/nausea/vomiting-Biscuits and gravy. Pot roast. Warm, deep fried brownies with ice cream and caramel sauce. ---If you just threw up, you might have the flu. However, you might just have an aversion to good southern cooking, which is probably worse than having the flu.
- sore throat-If you have finished every bottle in your liquor cabinet and still feel like you have swallowed a live hedgehog, you might have the flu.
- runny nose-If you have gone through all of your Kleenex, toilet paper, paper towels, Handi-Wipes and are now looking for old socks, you might have the flu.
- cough-If you are checking your old socks for a random piece of lung, you might have the flu.
- diarrhea-If you have a stack of newspaper next to your toilet and have gone beyond caring that you may actually be losing a few pounds, you might have the flu.
- tiredness-If you've made it this far without having to take a nap, you probably DON'T have the flu.
- dizziness-If you can see and type well enough to update your Facebook status to say: 'I have the flu', you probably DON'T have the flu. And unless your keyboard is attached to your commode, how are you typing anyway?
- irritability-If you become apoplectic when you read all of the Influenza conspiracy theories that are on the internet, you probably DON'T have the flu. You might, however, be a nurse.
As for me, getting the shot is a no-brainer, not just to protect myself, but those I come in contact with. For me, any risk, any 'problems' are definitely outweighed by the benefits. BUT, everyone is free to do their own research and make their own choices.
If you follow my blog, you know that some time in April I decided I wanted to be a runner. I run with the arms of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, and have one flat foot and one that pirouettes, but, I've discovered that in running, looking funny isn't necessarily a bad thing. But being older? That's an entirely different story.
I ran my first 5K last Saturday, the Glow Run in Las Vegas. Imagine how proud I was to cross the finish line, behind a guy in a onesie wearing a horse's head, and in front of all the toddlers I had to trip to beat them. Then came the major deflation. Some little twit hands me a coupon and says, "Great! Now go get a drink, Grandma."
GRANDMA?!!? My first thought was to show her the upper cut that 'Grandma' is famous for. My second was to remind her skinny little behind that 'Grandma' just ran three miles while she stood at the finish line passing out drink coupons. My third was to take her in the bar and show her that 'Grandma' could not only outrun her, but could waste her on the pool table, drink her under the table and still be at work by 6 a.m.
But, in my 'old age', I have learned a few things. The tactics above may be a lot of fun, but, there is a much better way for a good girl from the Midwest to say her piece.
I simply smiled and said, "Bless Your Heart."
Which for those of you that don't know, is Kansas code for 'Kiss My Ass.'
It's bad enough I have to be on alert for the badger that I know is stalking me on my morning run, but now I have another problem.
Yes, those creepy little flying rodents apparently have found a home somewhere in my neighborhood, and last week, I ran in to a colony of them (I was looking down trying to avoid a badger attack) and they weren't too happy about it.
Remember Hitchcock's The Birds? Imagine it with bats, and me running through the neighborhood at 5 a.m. screaming at the top of my lungs while bats dove on me, surely intent on sucking the life force from me, or at least messing up my hair. Forget the school children. I set a new record for my 3 miles that morning. Go Me.
Of course, the intelligent thing to do when you know there is a colony of bats in the neighborhood is to avoid their nesting area at dawn. However, in my family, we have a saying: If you didn't take a picture, it didn't happen.
So I went back. Not the actual mother bat.
I thought about dressing as Batgirl to convince the bats that I was one of their own and hopefully they wouldn't attack. However, running in the boots proved to be too difficult and purple isn't really my color. Oh well, it's just one picture, and I knew to stay far enough away that I could outrun them if they noticed me, so what could happen?
The colony, I noticed, consisted of a few adults and mostly babies. Babies learning to fly, most of them not very good at it. Cute, in a freaky flying rodent kind of way. I got as close as I thought I could, grabbed my camera and aimed.
Flash or no flash at dawn?
Contrary to myth, bats are not afraid of light. However, a sudden flash of light for new babies learning to fly in the pre-dawn darkness is startling, and although the babies were already uncoordinated, the addition of a flash was more than a few could handle. I heard one squeal, just before he hit a tree. I assumed he was laughing.
Mother Bat did not find it funny at all. Not my tree
They say bats don't attack humans. Well, I know they chase humans, I proved that last week. And if they don't attack humans, what exactly was Mother Bat's intentions as she flew straight toward me, her wings spread to a good twelve feet (estimating), her mouth open and her claws sprung? I don't think she was posing for a picture.
And then I heard 'the words' that told me it was time to break a new speed record. As a mother, I can translate those words from any language: French, Spanish, Bat.
"YOU MESS WITH MY KIDS YOU MESS WITH ME!"
I ran like, like, like....A bat out of Hell.
And made it home again with my eyeballs.
Bats 1. Kelly 1.
I was willing to call it a tie. Until this morning.
I grabbed a cup of coffee and went to sit on my back porch with my dog.
I looked up and my pine tree was covered. With bats.
They found me.
This war is on.
Driving home from work last night, something ran out in front of my car. I live in an area that has been over constructed, forcing a lot of animals to be displaced from their natural environment, so seeing a random coyote is not unusual. Rabbits and quail are common sights, and of course, a rattlesnake every once in a while. But this was none of the above. I'm sure it was a badger.
"Mom, badgers do not live in the desert," my son said.
"Well, they are evil, and I don't want one hanging out in my neighborhood."
So I Googled it. That's right, when in doubt, Google. Badgers do live in the mountains around the desert, however, the Googlexperts said "they are uncommon in Vegas, so don't expect to see one." Yeah, well, they don't know me. If a badger is to be seen, it will be on my watch. And to make matters worse, I read this about badgers:
Badgers eat anything that doesn't run faster than they do.
I guarantee I am slower than a badger.
This was all I could think about on my morning run. I picture myself jogging along and suddenly being attacked by a badger, being slashed by its little creepy claws and eaten alive or dragged back to its cave to be shared at the family picnic. I could have sworn I saw a line of little red eyes watching me from the side of the path, a recon team, watching my movements, laughing, probably, at how easy this catch was going to be.
Then I thought, what if it is a honey badger? Sure, they aren't supposed to be in the desert either, but, looking at the pictures, I'm now convinced it was a honey badger that ran out in front of me. It stopped briefly to sneer at me. Which is really bad. What kind of animal thinks it's so bad it can sneer at a moving vehicle? Honey Badger, of course. And according to my friends at Google, they have been known to dig up human corpses. They wouldn't even have to dig me up, just run me down.
So now when I run, I will not only be on the lookout for rattlesnakes and coyote, but the dreaded Desert Honey Badger, which I am sure exists.
Rattlesnakes are kind of slow, coyotes are easy to scare, but Honey Badger don't care.
I don't stand a chance.
Take a writer, particularly one that lost that little filter thing years ago, throw her in the middle of a writing retreat, and stand back. Last week, Beth Garland
and I enjoyed a few days at the When Words Count Retreat
in Rochester, Vermont. Looking back, I have to say I found a common theme for the trip: Beaver. Yes, beaver, and it’s many definitions. One of our new writer friends, Bill from Statten Island, New York, has that classic New Yawk accent that I love to listen to. While he was telling us about his trip to “Chin-er”, I couldn’t help but interrupt and ask, “Do you also say vagin-er?” One of those things I’m sure everyone would like to know but were afraid to ask. He says no. I don’t believe him. About ten miles from the retreat is Granville, Vermont. It is here, I was told, that I could see the local wildlife. I met Jim, an elderly gentleman, at the local General Store and asked him where I could find moose. He gave me a detailed mental map, and yes, I saw a moose. Excited, I went back to the store and thanked Jim. My thank you went something like this:
Me: That was amazing? So how about some beaver?
Jim smiled: Sounds good to me.
(It’s a good thing I saw a rooster without having to ask…) On the plane ride home, I sat next to an older woman who noticed I was reading “Writing Erotica.” She was delighted and asked me if I would name a character after her. Then she asked if I wrote poetry, well, maybe, and she decided she would much rather have an erotic poem with her name in it. Esther.
I’m not much of a poet, but rhyming with Esther? Fester? Molester? Jester? Pester? Maybe if I task this to Bill he can rhyme it with Fiest-er? Considering her age, maybe Siest-er? Or even Vaginer? So I’ve decided to leave the poetry to poets, the beaver hunting to Jim and the vaginers to Bill.
And next time I go on a writing retreat, I'll spend more time writing and less time letting my mouth get me in to trouble (No I won't. )
Better looking than MJ
In my never dying quest to be worthy of Abercrombie and Fitch, I see that it is time to diet again. Apparently, my groovy coolness and ability to actually pay for the over-priced crap does not outweigh my recent birthday and my extra twenty (did I say 20? HA!) pounds.
And while I'm at it, I might as well go for golden. I mean, that's what makes a cool kid cool, right? I want to be the next face of Abercrombie and Fitch. Of course, it would have to be one of the ads where I'm being groped by some loser that can't afford a shirt and forgot how to pull his pants up, because the "Blondes Don't Pay Cover" and "Blame It On My Blue Eyes" campaigns are just too Aryan nation for me.
As someone who has been overweight since birth and has been on a diet since I was five years old, I'm pretty well versed in all the ways I'm supposed to act to insure me the next spot on an A&F ad. Can I do it? Probably not, because as anyone who has never suffered with chronic obesity will tell you, us fat women are a lazy bunch. But somewhere in between my working sixty hours a week, running three times a week, writing a book and managing a house, I'm going to get off my fat ass and put on my WWMJD (What Would Mike Jeffries Do) cheap rubber bracelet and try it again. My drug of choice this time around: Alli.
First, why would I need a drug, right? Just be more active and quit stuffing your face, that's the key. Well, somewhere between learning to walk and starting grade school, my body decided that I should do twice as much as everyone else, and eat half as much, just to maintain an overweight status. Pfft. I've already been doing that for almost fifty years. Of course, birthing children that would fall into Jeffries category of an ideal customer didn't help much either, but that's a moot point since I've told them they will be disinherited if I catch them in an "A&F" shirt.
Again, why Alli? The side effects, silly! Who can resist anal leakage? Oily, orange colored stools, an inability to control bowel movements, gas with discharge and of course, rectal pain? It's all for beauty, right? So who cares if my ass hurts and I crap orange slime every time I fart? It's all for the betterment of society.
Yesterday, I bought Alli. I lasted 24 hours. I had to resolve myself to the fact that I'm just not as cool as Mike Jeffries, who is at least a decade older (and definitely not as good looking) as me, but that took all of about 30 seconds. I mean, dude (your favorite word, not mine), look in the mirror. Not cool at all. You're like that creepy grandpa that wants to hang out with the teenagers, and they let you, temporarily, only so they can laugh about it later.
And incidentally, at sixty +, I know the 'male problems' you are either experiencing or will be soon. You'll be begging for anal leakage. How cool is that, dude?