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The Weekly Top Zen: Food Floozy


I hate myself.

Not always, mind you. But most certainly right now. I just returned from an establishment, which, for the owners’ and my well being, will remain anonymous. There I ate a dozen hot wings, downed a substantial amount of beer and then finished with some barbecue nachos. I am a junk food junkie. I am a strumpet of strudel. A vamp for Velveeta. Hello, my name is Andy Paul and I am a food floozy.

I didn’t intend for this to happen. I come from a well-adjusted, fairly healthy family. But I have strayed from the path. I’ve tried over the past year to eat better, exercise more; the whole shebang. I often think my reprehensible past is behind me.

But then my dark moments resurface once again. My relapses, if you will. Suddenly, out of nowhere, after days of eating correctly, my body demands a Whopper. And fries. And a large Coke. And more fries. And probably a Dr. Pepper to wash the whole thing down (I don’t want to get indigestion, after all). After that, I spend hours groaning in my bed with the lights off, wondering how I allow myself to be debased so thoroughly. Then I go out and do it again for dessert.

Why am I doomed to so low and depraved a state? Somehow through all this, my metabolism is about as fast as Michael Phelps riding a very svelte, well-trained cheetah. My eating habits are not discernible just by looking at me. If one were to guess my actual background based on body type, I’m pretty sure the most popular response would be “Chimney Sweep.” But I will not be blessed for long, I know. Sooner or later, my body will pay for its sins. Its fatty, fatty sins. And I’ll have no one to blame but myself.

But wait! This is America. Land of choice, of freedom, of opportunity! Land of guiltless living! Surely I can pass my responsibilities on to a vaguely convincing and easily manipulated scapegoat!

So, my readers, it is not my fault for my wicked, finger-licking ways. It’s the American lifestyle that is to blame! Yes, you heard right. I was just minding my own business in my living room, eating a healthy, delicious carrot when the epilepsy-inducing McDonald’s ads burst onto my television screen. They suggested — nay, they demanded — I throw that carrot in the trash and drive the two blocks down my street to buy a Big Mac. They made sure I used the gas-guzzling SUV, too. And when I got there, oh, the horror! They forced me to take eight of their Happy Meal toys out into the parking lot and set fire to the lot of them, ensuring the CFCs were properly absorbed into the atmosphere.

You see?! It’s not my fault! The American fast food way of living is to blame, with its flashing lights and cheap plastic toys and pink goo, which congeals into double quarter pounders. How can one resist such tempting images? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take a shower. All this typing has made me sweat.