“Dukes,” you may ask, “why not just clean up what you eat & get a little exercise? Wouldn’t that be better than just constantly complaining about being overweight?” Of course I wouldn’t hear the question because I was busy having volcanic diarrhea after the 14 beers and large thin crust pizza I ate after my wife went to bed.
What I’m saying is – I get it. I’m not blaming anyone but myself. But much like the greatest father figure in the history of cinema, I believe in plain speak…
I’m fat. I can’t beat it. I’ll die early because of it. With that morbid/completely accurate prediction out of the way, let’s wallow in the situation a little.
Skinny people have NO idea what fat people are capable of. What we are proficient in is eating for “pleasure.” I’ve decided to make a list of the 5 fattest things I eat. This is in no particular order and certainly won’t be pedestrian. Donuts? Meh. Burgers? What are you, a crossfitting puritan?
No, this is going to be disgusting, sordid, corpulent and you WILL think less of me.
I make a cheese dip when people come over to my house. It involves salsa, chili, and a giant fucking brick of Velveeta. One that, for some reason, you don’t have to refrigerate even though I assume it’s some type of dairy product.
Generally, as I am cubing up this filth to facilitate it “melting” after it’s bathed in radiation in the microwave, I am alone. That usually is my undoing as the ratio of Velveeta cubes that end up in the dip versus the ones that get tossed down my fat cake hole is 1:1.
I’ve put down so much of this plastic, orange Play-Doh that after I’m cremated, you’ll be able to mix my ashes in with their scrambled eggs and have a nice breakfast. Delightful, even.
Cold Chef Boyardee
When I say cold, I mean pop the top and stick the fork in.
I don’t know if this method was something that I always preferred or just spawned from my sheer sloth-like lethargy. All I know is that it’s disgusted anyone that has ever caught me consuming this sodium saturated death in a can.
Make no mistake, I LOVE Chef Boyardee. One needs not be Bob from the Biggest Loser to know that a meat product that can last for 25 years inside of an aluminum can is not something you should be spooning into your trap – or cramming up your ass. I’m a veteran of both practices.
I’ve had several people in my life chastise me for not taking the extra 45 seconds to heat up this slop before eating it. “Why won’t you just heat it up?” they ask. “Fuck you.” I reply. If I respected myself in the first place, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?
So stuff your sorries in a sack and keep it moving, pal. I’ve got cold slug meat pasta envelopes to feast on.
After-Dinner Pastel Mints
Does ANYONE else like these things?! Does ANYONE have any idea what the hell they are made of?
My mom used to take my brother and I to a Mexican joint here in Northern Virginia called “Anita’s.” Kick ass breakfast burritos, but more importantly, they have these dusty mint things in a basket by the door as you exit their establishment.
My mom would lose her mind on a regular basis because of this. My brother and I would hold our shirts out and shovel spoonfuls of mints into them like a hobo packing his bindle.
The colors mean nothing, of course. All of these mints taste the same. I imagine they were originally intended for pedo’s to carry around in their trouser pockets back in the ’40s to facilitate the luring of children into panel vans — did they have panel vans in the ’40s? They had to. What else would perverts drive around in? They certainly couldn’t use mass transportation. I’ve never seen a sex criminal on a funicular.
I’ve actually purchased BOXES of these mints at the grocery store and chomped happily on them in the parking lot. What a psychopath. I should be dragged behind a combine so that another combine could have an easier go at running me over.
If I won’t EAT any vegetables, maybe I could better serve by fertilizing them. I hope all those rows of maize like cold canned pasta, orange rubber cheese, and dust mints as fertilizer.
Whataburger Spicy Ketchup
I don’t mean dipping fries in Whataburger Spicy Ketchup. I don’t mean putting it on hot dogs or hamburgers or even scrambled eggs. That’s all well and good, but that’s not nearly revolting enough.
I squirt the stuff straight down my throat. I’m obsessed with it.
It’s beyond tangy. I want to insert a catheter into my pee slit and use it to facilitate MORE Whataburger Spicy Ketchup into my boddess. I want to dry shave my face and head so all my pores are open and then slather myself from the neck up in Whataburger Spicy Ketchup. I fill condoms with the stuff and then back over them in the driveway so that my driveway is covered in DELICIOUS Whataburger Spicy Ketchup.
Condiments shouldn’t be snorted underneath a church pew during a same sex wedding. At least, that’s what my legal representation told me after the last “incident.”
My contention is that this company makes great ketchup and mustard that I couldn’t recommend you purchase any more. I just wish mine was a life that could enable one to enjoy said condiments the way a “person” would — not a slobbering hog beast that weighs as much as B.J. Raji holding a dozen bowling balls.
Grated (Powdered) Parmesan Cheese
I’m sure it’s “grated.” It’s cheese dirt.
I’ll never forget when my addiction started. I was at Jerry’s Subs & Pizza in Springfield, Virginia. My old man was born to rock and he’s still trying to beat the clock. He also loved pizza and not spending money on his children. So, as any Northern Virginia native knows, that meant Monday Night was Jerry’s night.
This is because Jerry’s offered a $4.99 large pepperoni pizza on Monday night’s, and free refills in the soda fountain (which is ubiquitous now, but wasn’t then). It was a skinflint’s dream.
My pops had taken my brother and I to Jerry’s on a Monday night, many moons ago. While I was in the bathroom, he had loosened the sliver screw top on the glass hand grenade of parmesan that was sitting on the table. I went to shake some on my pizza and out poured the entire contents – what a hoot!
Much to his chagrin, I wasn’t upset. Quite to the contrary. I did what any man that wanted his foot lopped off by the time he was 39 would do; I grabbed a spoon and dug in.
To this day, I’ve been in more arguments with my wife about eating all the parmesan cheese in the house than we’ve had about money, family, or anything else in our lives.
She hit the romantic Powerball, friendos. Every time we order a pizza and somehow the plastic bin of parmesan cheese dander has gone “missing,” I am convinced she won’t know it was me.
How could she? I’m so smooth about dumping it on Raisin Bran in the morning and blowing handfuls of it into the dogs eyes.
That’s how this blog ends.