Meat is Murder, but slimming is suicide

I’m sure that my innocent and pure readership will never have been in such a situation, but have you ever watched a roulette wheel spinning? The way it rotates, seemingly forever as you wait in hope for your number to come up. Finally it bounces between the final few numbers, and you dejectedly sigh in abject disappointment that you were nowhere near.

Well I’ve just stepped off the scales, and had flashbacks to the panic and fear of an expensive night at the casino.

There are 3 possible explanations for the results:
1- There is an extraordinarily strong gravitational field operating in the bathroom
2- The scales are knackered
3- I’m a bloater trapped in a slightly bigger than averaged sized body

Ruling out mechanical problems, and a unique collapse of the laws of physics, I may have to accept that I’m overweight.

As there is a risk of all sorts of bad things happening to me due to my lardy nature (excess sweating and being ambushed by the Japanese Whaling fleet being amongst the most daunting), I must consider ways to solve this hazardous problem.

I am currently playing an amusing game of litigation-chicken with Fitness First gyms, and my spine still feels like I’ve given Kerry Katona a piggy-back on the way back from the kebab shop, we can rule out exercise.

I can’t sing that well, so no hope of appearing on Britain’s Got Talent and getting a makeover funded by Simon Cowell or the News of the World.

I’m skint, so the only liposuction option involves a kitchen knife and a Dyson… and that didn’t work so well when they did it in South Park.

Which leaves only one terrifying option- a Diet.

I like my food. Clearly this is the case, or I wouldn’t have played bubba-fatass roulette with such apocolyptic results. I enjoy proper breakfasts (half a pig in assorted shapes, and anything else that can be shallow-fried), trips to the drive-through burger bars, crisps, curries, cheese, and pies. And that’s before my tea! You can therefore imagine the enthusiasm I have for anything that amends my meal choices.

To assist and encourage me though, I have TechnoScouse. Not only is TS on my case, but she has a book, entitled Skinny Bitch. The one and only time she goes for the archaic use of print on paper, and it’s costing me calories. I feel this book is only going to be half successful though- I’m going to be its bitch before I become skinny.

I am actually under the subjugation of the follow-up title Skinny Bastard. As my readers have an IQ higher than my cholesterol level, you will have guessed that this is aimed more at men than the effeminate first title. If, alternatively, you are as lucky as me to have read the contents of both books, you will know they are pretty much identical, but with gender reversal of the pithy little snipes made by the patronising harpies who have now extracted 2 amounts of cash from my plasma TV fund. (Bitter? Me?)

Now as expected, deep-fried Mars bars do not seem to be favoured by the Skinny Bitches. Perhaps that’s why they are probably embittered old skanks who listen to Joss Stone albums, drinking wheatgrass smoothies, and smelling of incence. However, what amazed me was that low calorie soft drinks are on the same level with diesel when it comes to being included in your diet.  It would seem that nutrasweet or other artificial sweetners may be low in calories, but are about as beneficial to your health as polonium. Indeed their approval by the American FDA is the subject of almost hysterical conspiracy theories of corrupt practices by some lawyers (which i find hard to believe).

Meat too is pretty much outlawed, with numerous references made to the appalling conditions in which animals are slaughtered. Not only that, but it would seem that (contrary to the evidence of evolution and the fact that humans are living longer than ever and are generally ace), that the consumption of flesh is directly responsible for everything from bad breath to cancer to global warming and the continued anti-western stance of Iran and North Korea. I am paraphrasing there a little, but still reading this book is like going out for a meal with Morrissey and Paul McCartney, and rather talking about music they take turns to kick you in the groin because of your choice of starter!

Hitler was a vegetarian. Didn’t drink or smoke either. Not my paragon of health and fitness, and hardly lived to a ripe old age did he?

Now I hate intolerant people, but do you know the kind who hack me off the most? Lactose intolerant people. Sorry, crap joke but it segues nicely because good old cow-juice is strictly off limits for skinny bitches. Despite the fact that I’m the next stage up the evolutionary chain, and drink  my coffee black, there are such delights as butter, cheese, and… well, more cheese, that make eating (and therefore living) that little bit more worthwhile.

This has resulted in a humilating and morally repugnant addition to our weekly shopping list. I now have to buy cartons of chocolate soya “milk.” Not that I would ever care what anyone in the queue at Tesco thought about me, but it’s like a shorthand way to say “Yes, I live with my fiance, and yes I lose this argument every sodding week.” And for what? 3 cartons of the stuff that gets flushed out during colonic irrigation. Yum-yum!

What’s more, is that if I’m prohibted from the ideal breakfast outlined at the start of this little ramble, then the lack of milk means that cereals are out of the picture too. This leaves toast (no butter or anything else of interest is  approved to go on it though), no coffee (as it is apparently the same pH as the blood of an Alien, and about as good for your insides), and fruit.

The idea of fruit is great, but the reality is very different. Due to powers beyond my comprehension, any fruit I buy will be subject to mysterious laws of nature. The more appetising it is, and the greater my desire to eat it, the shorter the amount of time before it becomes blue and fluffy or attracts a colony of fruit flies (I still have the blood of some little buzzing jasper smeared on the wall of my office from the last time in bought a punnet of plums). Conversely, if a piece of fruit doesn’t interest me in the slightest, or isn’t something I like, it’ll last for approximately 5000 years without so much as a layer of dust troubling it.

So let’s summarise. Bread with nothing of interest to go on it, no fried food, no milkshakes, no breakfast worth having so by the time lunch arrives i could eat a passing dog if meat wasn’t off limits. This lifestyle doesn’t make you live any longer, but it will make each day drag out so it feels like you’ve lived forever!

This entry was posted on Sunday, October 4th, 2009 at 4:02 pm and is filed under Daily life, Rants, Thoughts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.