It’s nearing the end of basketball season, which means it’s playoff time. Me, I could care less about basketball. I’m a football fan. (Go Skins!)

I’ve been to my share of basketball games in my life but the sport is so damned monotonous that within two minutes of tip-off I’m wandering around the arena looking for hot dogs and beer. They only let you buy two beers at a time so it’s usually a good strategy to start in the parking lot first.

For some reason food always tastes better at a stadium. I think it’s the electric atmosphere of the game that adds to the enjoyment. Then again, it could just be your brain trying to convince your stomach that you just spent $9 on a cold hot dog on a stale bun so this had better be the best damn cold hot dog on a stale bun you’ve ever had.

I’m dieting so why do I bring this up? Because of professional wrestling of course!

It turns out that there was some controversy this week over basketball and the WWE. The NBA has scheduled a playoff game in Denver next Monday night. That wouldn’t be news except that the owner of the Denver team had so little faith in his players making it to the playoffs that he double-booked the arena with a wrestling telecast.

To make a long story short, the owner of the Denver Nuggets told the WWE that they’re going to have to find another place for their live Monday night show, WWE RAW.

Well, that didn’t sit well with the owner of the WWE. He suggested that the two owners have a steel cage match to see who gets the arena that night.

Now that’s out of the box thinking! I like his style! It reminds me of the way us rednecks settle things in the back woods of Virginia:

First, get both parties together and get them rip roaring drunk at which point they shoot a completely uninvolved third party. They bury the body in a conspicuous place and, before leaving the scene, drop their wallets nearby. Soon afterwords, one party will return to the scene and ask an investigating officer if a wallet has been found. After being arrested, the party will drift between 17 different versions of the story starting with “I wasn’t even there” to “The boy needed killin’”. He will eventually finger the other suspect and the arresting begins. The families of the two assailants will meet in front of a mobile home and the young men will begin fighting. At this point, the women will begin “wrecking hairdo’s and manicures” and the young men will become involved with separating the ladies. The older men will sit in lawn chairs, drink beer and discuss the sexual utility of a good bitchfight (”Tellerwhat boys, I’m harder than Chinese arithmetic!”). The case will go to trial. The prosecutor will attempt to prove the guilt of the defendants while the Defense attorney will try to confuse the jury into a state of paralysis. At the end of three days, it will be determined that the victim is indeed dead and the trial will go to the jury. After a few hours, a juror will remember that he and one of the defendants “have the same momma” and a mistrial will be declared. If no one speaks for the victim, the court will decide the boy did indeed need killin’ and the case will be dropped.

Now that’s justice.

Anyway, what’s the point of all this? Well, I like to eat peanuts while watching my sporting events and peanuts are South Beach Diet approved. So that’s what basketball and wrestling have to do with dieting.

(How’s that for a remarkable recovery?)

I’ve been eating a lot of strange foods lately. You know them best as Brussels sprouts, asparagus and broccoli. Blech!

Honestly, I don’t know how people can be vegetarian. Vegetables just don’t satisfy me. I’m a man. I need meat to feel full.

The way I figure it, vegetables are for animals to eat so they can get fat and then the animals are for me to eat so that I can get fat. That’s the way of the world.

And besides, if God didn’t want man to eat animals he wouldn’t have made them so damned tasty.

It’s funny, vegetarians will go to all sorts of extremes to go against nature. Tofu burgers, tofu dogs, tofu chicken fingers… I’m not tofu kidding.

A few years ago, in a former life, I attended a Seventh-Day Adventist church. Their claim to fame is that they worship on Saturdays… oh yeah, and the Branch Davidians were an offshoot. Oops!

One of the the denomination’s founders, Ellen White (who some in the denomination claim to be a prophet) believed that mankind should only eat the food God provided to us in Eden (that being unfermented fruits, nuts and vegetables). She had this revelation, of course, despite the fact that Jesus ate lamb and fish… and his first miracle was turning water into wine.

Ahem.

Anyway, after Sabbath service they would always have a pot luck. I think they thought it was a great marketing gimmick because they’d always invite visitors to stay for pot luck afterward.

I’m sure the Average Joe off the street expected hamburgers, hot dogs and meatballs. Imagine their surprise when they were first assaulted by the overwhelming stench of soybeans and tofu when they entered the dining hall. And then imagine their twisted faces and bellies when they were presented with generous a plate of soybean Buffalo wings, tofu chicken breasts (with “genuine” grill marks) and a heap of soybean pudding.

Truly Kodak Moments.

Anyway, I’d go to the pot luck to be cordial but would always stop by McDonald’s on the way home. And sometimes it was so bad that I’d need a Burger King chaser.

To me, fake food is like food porn. It’s not quite the same as touching the real thing but you can fantasize.

I remember the last meal I had there. It was an Hawaiian Luau theme because some missionaries from India were in town. (Yeah, I didn’t get the connection either.)

Everyone was excited. Don Ho music was playing in the background, girls were passing out leis and out of the kitchen came a procession of food. The young girls leading the line had sparklers and all the women were beaming! What a show!

There’s the bowl of green Jello and marshmallows. Then the red bowl. Then the orange bowl…

Then the star of the night was brought out. Everyone clapped and cheered. It was the roasted pig!

The roasted — tofu — pig.

Complete with an apple in it’s mouth.

It was at that very moment that I had an epiphany. God made animals and man made tofu. And isn’t challenging God’s plan the thing that got us all into trouble in the first place?

So, I went home and had a double pepperoni pizza and a box of wine. After all, who am I to question the ways of the Master?

I started Phase 2 of the South Beach Diet today. I lost 10.4 pounds on Phase 1 as of this morning.

I had an apple today for the first time in two weeks. Actually, it’s probably been longer than that. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I had fruit other than tomatoes on a Margherita pizza or yellow grapefruit juice in my Stoli Greyhounds.

Hmmm. I suppose that explains a great deal of how I got this beer belly.

You know, losing ten pounds in two weeks is pretty good. But In a way I hate to see my ol’ belly go… it cost me a lot of money to acquire.

Anyway, Phase 2 means that I can start adding some food back into my diet. I can have some small portions of fruit, a slice of whole wheat bread and diet Jello pudding cups. Guess which one I’m eating right now.

The South Beach book says that I’ll end up losing only one to two pounds per week now. I suppose that’s a fair trade for getting taste and variety back in my diet. A man can only eat so many Brussels sprouts before he snaps.

I’m telling you. It sure was more fun putting an extra 80 pounds on than trying to get it back off.

Sigh.

Have you been into a health food store recently? I was in one this morning and I was the fattest guy in the store. That’s what I like about travelling to places like Chicago. I’m thin over there.

The store by my house is run by these thin shaky people. Not quite hippies and not quite meth-heads. I think they live on Red Bulls and Dexatrim.

I was asking about some vitamins and this one little nymph with tattoos from her knuckles up to her shoulder (and probably other places I couldn’t see even though I tried to sneek a cheap peek) recommended a particular brand. “Is it good?” I asked. “Absolutely!” she said with an odd tick, “I use it every day!” I thanked her and put it back on the shelf. I’ve got enough problems without developing an amphetamine twitch or something.

Anyway, I was there because I’ve been reading a lot of health books lately. Almost all suggested one form of diet supplementation of one sort or another. One recommended something for my liver, one said to increase my pH level, one said to take probiotics with every meal. It’s all very confusing and very expensive.

To hell with universal health care, I want universal supplement care! My visit to the health food store cost me over one hundred-fifty dollars!

Ack!

Taking all these books advice I came up with the following list:

• Health Alliance CoQ10
• HealthForce Nutritionals Liver Rescue III+
• Jarrow Formulas FamilE
• Jarrow Formulas L-Carnitine
• Jarrow Formulas N-Acetyl Tyrosine
• Kyolic Aged Garlic
• Low Strength Aspirin
• MRM DHEA
• MuscleTech Anabolic Vitakic
• Solaray Calcium, Magnesium, Zinc
• Solaray Ester-C

The CoQ10 is for my heart, the Liver Rescue is mouth-to-mouth for my liver which has been drowning in beer, the Jarrow products are for weight loss, the garlic is to fend off werewolves, the aspirin (along with my prescription Metoprolol and Lisinopril) are for my high blood pressure, the DHEA is for the ladies (helps male hormone levels), the Vitakic multivitamins are to turn my pee a really cool fluorescent yellow, and the Solary products are just there because I had an extra $20 in my pocket and that nymph was a good salesperson.

All in all it comes up to 26 pills per day.

Ugh!

So, I might rattle a bit‚ but at least I’ll never go hungry! I’m full of pills!

Earlier this evening, after eating my salad and chicken breast, I found myself sitting in Chuck E. Cheese’s with my nephew and family.

Hmmm… a food joint with a rodent as its mascot?! Ah, but I digress.

Suddenly, in comes the family from hell.

Within seconds six kids run screaming and each scatter into different areas of the restaurant. Can Chuck’s really be called a restaurant? Oops, again, I digress. Mom orders her pizza and, of course, grabs a table right in the middle of everyone.

One of the younger boys has all the couth and grace of Mike Tyson before jail and proceeds to steal game tickets from his siblings and then from strangers.

Within seconds there are four kids crying, at least six kids screaming, and one adult (me) steaming.

The kid then runs over to someone’s table and sticks his finger in the side of their birthday cake and licks it off.

(Note to self: Do not go to Chuck E. Cheese’s if you don’t have kids of your own.)

I get up and walk over to the mother who is blind to all of this. “Excuse me ma’am, but your cute little bastard is stealing tickets from other kids and just put his finger into another family’s birthday cake.”

She replies, “He’s only four! That’s what kids do at his age!”

Meanwhile, before I have a chance to do something that would land me in jail, Mr. Cheese himself (a guy in a costume) goes over to little Damien and tries to settle him down by dancing in front of him.

The kid gets scared and punches Chuck in the stomach… actually, a bit lower than the stomach. Chuck falls over and is laying in the fetal position on the ground. Then two kids jump on him thinking he is playing.

After a few seconds of 180-proof chaos, a manager goes running over and tries to regain order. He pulls the kids off Chuck and helps him to his feet. By now, Mr. Cheese is noticeably woozy and takes a seat at one of the nearby tables.

The kid who started it all runs back over to hide by his mother. The manager spots her and she spots him. Before he can confront her she dashes off to the bathroom and hides out in there.

My nephew, meanwhile, has a handful of tickets he won from some of the arcade games. We make our way over to the redemption center where he claims a plastic lizard and a spy ring that must have cost ol’ Chuck all of $0.08. It cost me almost $20.

Sigh.

The lady is still in the bathroom as we are about to leave.

Ah yes, Chuck E. Cheese’s, “Where a Kid can be a @#$!% Kid.”

On the way out I notice some of the merchandise I could purchase to remember our evening together.

The shirt in the image above is pretty nice and surprisingly inexpensive. But I don’t know about you, if I saw a 4-year-old wearing the shirt below, I’d strongly suggest that his parents toss out his Bob Marley music and get him into rehab.

How many drugs
Could a drugged Chuck chuck
If a drugged Chuck
Could chuck drugs?

Dear God, who is in charge of their marketing?! He must love beer too. And probably while on the job.