There are three things I really hate in life: making unprotected left hand turns, Dr. Meredith Grey, and fucking diets. Seriously, I'd rather be stuck in a pack of cyclists going 8 mph on the Autobahn in a Ferrari than diet. I'd rather wear pink polo shirts and frost my tips than diet. (Did you say frosting?!) No, Inner Monologue Guy, frosted tips; I know this diet has been hard for you too. I hate dieting, just on principle. There are starving people all across the world; going on a diet is like slapping them all in the face. But alas, I am on a fucking diet (that noise you just heard was an angel weeping as it lost its wings).

It all started a few weeks ago when I went to my asshole doctor's office. (He really is an asshole; he has no problem calling me fat. "Doc, I have this lower back pain, it's not unbearable, but it's a nuisance." "Do you think it's ‘cause you're fat?" Hey asshole, I got stung by a bee… and I have a thyroid problem. Fuck off.) After a long boring tirade of some shit he got to telling me how overweight I am. He went on with this "it's not just you anymore, you have a kid" guilt trip, and how I'll be setting an example for them, and future generations, and so on. In the end we made an agreement that I would begin some form of diet, and then we'd meet again at a later time. As I drove home passing all my regulars—Wendy's, Taco Bell, Dominos—I started to realize that Dr. Cockbreath did make sense; maybe it is time to do something about my weight. Fuck me.

I'm pretty sure the real JC eats pizza every night, and if he doesn't I'd be curious to see what they serve in hell. I mean, if it's pizza… I'd be open to the idea. First I tried the most immediate and easy resource I could find: Slim-Fast. This one time in the Marines my buddy was drinking purple Gatorade, and unknowingly grabbed a bottle of dip-spit and took a swig. His reaction was priceless, but until I tried a Slim-Fast I really couldn't know and understand what he went through. Fuck that shit. So like most things I drink that taste like ass, I add booze to it to give it some character. Well, apparently showing up to work smelling like a drunken sailor who just blew a Dilly-Bar kinda put me on the radar. That, and apparently we're still encouraged to wear pants at work. So fuck you, Slim-Fast, you're fired.

Next I looked into the paleo diet, but that struck me as the Affliction t-shirt of diets. "Brah, gettin' wicked ripped on paleo, brah." What Crossfit is to exercise, paleo is to dieting. Obviously there's nothing wrong with either, but participants of Crossfit/paleo are like vegans: they make a point to let everyone know they're doing it. So, paleo was out, as were a lot of other crazy diets with more rules than a failed C-list actress's first time doing porn.

So here I am, still at a loss.

Then, while watching Top Gear (the shitty US version) reruns at 3am, my boy Chuck B talked to me:

Are you fat? (Well….I mean….I guess I have what you'd call a ‘winter body'….I am pretty buoyant.

Are you dumb, and the kinda guy who doesn't really give a shit about learning all about nutrition and shit? (Yeah…fuck all that rabbit-food talk.)

Are you lazy? (You're goddamned RIA*.)

Are you looking to commit to a lifestyle change, or just 3 months of bullshit to shut someone up? (Lifestyle change, like getting gay with a dude or something? I don't drive on that side of the road, homo.)

Well then, Weight Watchers Online for Men is for you! (Really, for me? Sweet! Can I still eat at Taco Bell?)

And of course, you can still eat at Taco Bell, brother! You see, everything you eat is broken down to a point value. Your dumbass** is given a daily point value based on your weight and end-result goal. You can eat anything you want, and as much of it as you want. But at the end of each day, your points shouldn't exceed your daily limit. But don't worry dumbass, if you do go over your daily limit you have BONUS POINTS that can still be used throughout the week! (Wow, it's like dieting for Catholics; all the guilt, but still a guaranteed forgiveness.)

*Right I am. (Didn't feel like typing all that shit out.)
**Oh, don't go getting all pissy ‘cause you're doing Weight Watchers and I just called you a dumbass. You're a dumbass, and I am too. We're all lazy dumbasses, how the fuck do you think we got this out of shape, genetics?

So, I signed up. I even got an "online coach," Gary. I figured I'd email this dude to clear up an issue I had. Here was his response:

Weight Watchers diet email

Fuck Gary. I have my daily points limit and now I'm ready to fucking diet! Hell yeah (boo). Okay, 42 points. First, how many points in beer? 4. Fuckers. Okay, how many in wine? 3. Three! Awesome… oh wait, per 5 ounces?? Who the fuck pours 5 ounces? What about whiskey? 5 points per my standards. So, by volume beer is the winner. 4 points. So, I have 42 points, beer is 4 poin— oh fuck you, that only leaves me with 2 points for the entire day! I fucking hate diets.

As I was saying, with Weight Watchers you can practically eat whatever you want; it's just broken into portions and assigned a point value to you as if you're a dumb fatass. Which is good because I'm a dumb fatass. But when things you love are rationed to you, you take a different outlook on food. My favorite comedian, Jim Gaffigan, said in one of his routines that food is like porn (loose summation of that routine). But it's true, and when you're on a diet you and food enter a very unhealthy relationship.

My favorite place to get authentic Mexican food is Taco Bell, and fortunately I can still eat there on the Weight Watchers program. The Bell (that's what us fatties call it) has a "light-option" menu consisting of their "Fresca" line. A Chicken Fresca Taco has 4 points! Sweet. However, I can't begin to explain how awkward it is to stand in line at Taco Bell with an erection. God, the looks you get. "Oh, I'm sorry I'm making YOU uncomfortable, ma'am? I had a third cup of cottage cheese for breakfast today. COTTAGE FUCKING CHEESE! You don't know uncomfortable. And what, you've never seen a grown man order tacos with a boner? Fuck off." It's hard being on a diet. Society looks at you differently. "Harold, is that young fat man talking to his food?" "Just look away, Beatrice."

Pizza is another one of my favorite things to eat. I'm pretty sure the real JC eats pizza every night, and if he doesn't I'd be curious to see what they serve in hell. I mean, if it's pizza… I'd be open to the idea. My fatass is going to sweat no matter where I go, so why not sweat doing something I love. But being on a diet has made pizza weird too. "Let's see, I can have two slices of pizza (depressing sigh)." As I sit on the couch with my plate of pizza (I like to eat pizza on the couch while I watch my NASCAR…. ‘cause I like to represent white trash well) I look down at my two slices. Rather than two slices of pizza that a normal person sees, to me they transform into twin Natalie Portmans (Star Wars Natalie, not V for Vendetta Natalie…eww).

Let the foreplay begin: "Hey girl, what's that all over your body…pepperoni? Why don't we take a little bit of that off…. I won't bite…hard. Damn girl, I got you all sweaty…with grease. Why don't you come give daddy a kiss?" (Dude…this is getting strange.) Then the first bite, like a fucking choir of angels is standing on my tongue, singing to my belly. Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni-greasy-cheese!

On to post first bite awkward dialogue: "Baby, you're so good to me. You're making me so hot right now….actually, what the fuck is the thermostat set to? Screw it, I'll check that later….come here girl." Slice one is done, saving the crust for later.

On to slice two: "Sup girl? No it's not like that. Your sister, nah, she don't mean shit to me, girl. You've got it going on, you with your fine ass. Is that…is that bacon? Hurt me!" Once both slices are done, I save the crusts for last, like post-orgasm cuddles. (Cuddles? I knew you were gay.)

Well, there went 18 points, but 18 well-spent points. I do feel bad at times, since my poor wife has to sit there and witness all of this. "Babe, I've gotten used to you talking to your food. It's…it's weird, but I'm used to it now. But please, please don't ever again rub your nipples with your crust. That's where I draw the line."

My main fear, however, is that one night she'll catch me touching myself to the Dominos online menu. Have you ever built your own pizza? It's like designing your own diet fantasy. Hmm…where do I want my fantasy to take place? Brooklyn… Deep Dish? No, Hand Tossed. Add bacon. Extra bacon. Right side only…no, entire pizza. Pepperoni, right side. Italian sausage, left side. Add hot sauce…wait, no. I'll add pepper flakes on my own. Extra cheese…hmm…covers up the meat too much. I don't want you dressed like a whore, but I want to see some skin too. Add to order. Do I want chicken kickers? Fuck yeah I want chicken kickers. Add one kicker sauce. Add on ranch. Ranch is 50 cents…I can swing that. Complete order. SHIT, footsteps, someone's coming. Minimize! Minimize goddamn you! "What are you doing up so late?" "Uh… Drudge Report…yeah…um…so like the world is totally fucked right now. Get in bed…I'll uh…be in bed soon." I fucking love you, pizza. (Man, you just made pizza weird.)

The nice thing is that my beautiful wife is doing this diet with me. I'd cry myself to sleep if I had a salad every night while she ate pizza. But my wife is my complete opposite. She's optimistic about everything. Me, not so much. "Well, look here babe; you can have all the bananas you want since they don't have a point value." A BANANA! A WHOLE FUCKING BANANA! I haven't had a fucking banana since I was 14, can't wait to start eating them now. How many points is country fried steak? Tell me zero, that'll get my spirits up.

My wife is lucky because she's a sweet tooth. If she wants chocolate she can just eat a Hershey's Kiss and it won't count against her. I don't have a sweet tooth, I have a sausage gravy tooth. If you sneak a Hershey's Kiss, that's like saying, "I don't want to wreck my diet, I just need a little cheat, tee hee hee." If you spoon-feed yourself sausage gravy, that's like saying, "Fuck it, I quit. Nom nom nom gravy."

Snacking presents the biggest challenge. My wife eats a few grapes and is good to go. Fuck grapes. Hmmm, kettle-cooked chips…13 chips is…9 fucking points! Kiss my canola fried ass, Mrs. Vickie. Who the fuck eats 13 chips? Oh my, I just couldn't finish that 14th chip. Yeah, chips are such a heavy food. "Babe, you can have a Caesar Salad, WITH croutons for 5 points!" DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY FUCKING SALADS I'VE HAD IN THE PAST TWO WEEKS? I've had so many salads I call my butt-crack the Hidden Valley. (That's a bit of a stretch there, buddy. And it paints a poor visual image.) Fucking points…they add up so fast. I drove by a Wendy's on the way home from work today with my windows down and it cost me a point for smelling the fries. Fuck I hate this.

But the worst thing is that for a guy my size, losing 10 pounds isn't even noticeable. "Hey fatass, how's your diet going?" Okay, first, I'm not fat, I retain water. Second, it's going well, I lost 10 pounds. "Oh wow, 10 pounds, I can really see it in your left earlobe. Much thinner. Keep it up, tons of fun." Yeah, don't want to brag, but I've lost 10 pounds…cut a millimeter off my waste…you know, feeling good about myself. You see, my body type is what they call the "pear-shaped." I find it ironic that they use food to describe a body type, but fuck pears, I'm light bulb-shaped. I'm big and pale, like a frosted white light bulb upside down. (Did you say frosting?!) Shut the fuck up, guy. I'm talking here. For a guy like me, to make a noticeable difference I'd pretty much have to lose 50 pounds. I know all I have to do is eat a well-balanced diet and exercise, but that goes against my lazy outlook.

Fuck it, I'll just see where this goes.

I'll leave you with this: Yoda was full of shit. Fear doesn't lead to the dark side, diets do. If I was a Jedi, my light saber would be red right now, and I'd force-choke the fuck outta my doctor if I saw him. (Wow, only one Star Wars reference this time.) Correction, two Star Wars references. (My bad, fatass.)

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