12565586_10153390566157947_196705853327732808_n

Die

Kill me now. My wife has put us on a diet.

It all started when she tried on her high-school jeans — against my strong advice. She discovered the jeans were barely big enough for Maui Barbie, so she punched the refrigerator hard enough to dent it.

Her first move was outlawing my Twinkies and Butterfingers. Then, she prepared baked tofu and kale salad doused in white vinegar. Vinegar, as you know, is intended for stripping paint off old swing sets, not for salads.

Allow me to list some other entrees. Most of which, you’ll notice, are not Butterfingers.

Brown rice and lima beans. Spinach greens with a side of jack squat. Cabbage water soup — which tastes like a septic tank. Artificial meatloaf; made from oatmeal, vegetable broth, and a baseball mitt.

Shoot me in the armpit.

Of course, the hardest things are the mood swings. To protect the innocent, I won’t tell you which of us suffers psychopathic episodes, but I will say that it’s Jamie. Last night, when a commercial advertised Jimmy Dean sausage, she put another dent in our refrigerator.

To make matters worse, Jamie pre-packages lunches to suppress my hankerings for Butterfingers. Today’s gratifying banquet: celery dipped in what looks like Vaseline. Tomorrow: lawn clippings. The day after that: radishes.

I don’t even know why supermarkets sell radishes. I’ve never seen anyone in the checkout aisle buying radishes with their roast chicken and Budweiser. If you’ve never had a radish, they taste like pine knots soaked in bleach.

I’ll be frank with you, mankind is not meant to eat radishes, nor diet. It’s no coincidence the first three letters of “diet,” are what they are. I can spell.

My wife is trying to kill me and it’s working. Calorie-cutting is making me weak, I can’t even use the toilet without getting winded. I feel like I could sleep two years after the lunch I just ate.

Which as it happens, consisted of exactly one ugly red radish.

And six Butterfingers.

12654650_10153392346887947_2113845712315599932_n

Phones

I can quit any time I choose, dammit. I’m not addicted. I can stop playing with my phone whenever I please. In fact, I’m putting it down right now —after I check my email. Okay, I’m setting it down for real this time. Just one… Read more

12643005_10153388788812947_4643534970719817702_n

Mother-In-Laws

I’m sorry if this is offensive, because I consider myself a sincere gentleman. I mean it. I open doors for ladies, watch my language, and read comic books. But the truth is — and I can hardly say it — my mother-in-law just saw me… Read more

12646999_10153387299072947_9220864157661095240_n

Ellie

You’re not going to believe this, but I have a dog in my bed as I write this. A full-grown, hundred-pound, paws the size of pumpkins, loud snoring, number-two-eating coonhound. Her name is Ellie Mae, and her hindparts are on my pillow. I don’t know… Read more