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.



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