Diets
“Tell me again why I’m on a diet,” I say to the lovely Mrs. Borengasser, as I gulp down my turnip broth.
“I thought that’s what you wanted,” she responds.
“No, no,” I shake my head with what little strength I have left. “I didn’t want to go on a diet. I wanted to lose weight.”
“But that’s the way you lose weight,” she counters. “You go on a diet. You said you wanted to end up somewhere between svelte and gossamer.”
“I said that?”
She nods.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I announce. “I’m ready to settle for big-boned. What’s in the fridge?”
She walks out to the kitchen and returns with an envelope.
“What’s that?” I ask. “Some delicious paper? Great! It ought to be more filling than this stuff I’ve been eating.”
She shows me the envelope. On the outside is printed: “DO NOT OPEN TILL I TRY TO QUIT MY DIET!”
Doom.
“You don’t want to open that,” I quickly say. “It’s full of color photos of gum diseases, and … ah … and an essay describing a leper colony. Here – just give it to me, and I’ll dispose of it in a safe place where it can’t harm anyone.”
But when I attempt to take the envelope, she clutches it tighter. “Sorry,” she says. "You warned me this would happen.”
She opens it, and pulls out a note, which she reads aloud: “Under no circumstances are you to allow me to quit my diet. Make sure you keep the refrigerator padlocked.”
Doom.
“I was delirious when I wrote that,” I feverishly explain. “Look – just give me anything fried, and I’ll … I’ll devote my life to making you happy. I’ll work unceasingly for world peace. Better yet, I’ll keep the garden weeded.”
“Sorry,” she says.
Doom.
I realize that this is going to get ugly. “I’m not sure if you know this,” I say, “but you’re really an orphan. Your real parents ran the freak show in a traveling carnival. Would you like to know why they had to sell you?”
“It won’t work,” says the lovely Mrs. Borengasser.
“All right,” I finally say. “I give up. Only one thing: when I die – which will probably be from malnutrition the day after tomorrow – promise you’ll bury me with a bacon double cheeseburger and curly Q fries.”
“I promise,” she says.
I’m seriously depressed.
But then, I think – What if I use this experience profitably?
“I’m going to write a diet book,” I declare. “In fact, I’ve already thought of two revolutionary diet plans. For the first one, all you have to do is get a stomach virus. Everyone with a stomach virus loses weight. What do you think?”
“Is your second idea any better than your first?” the lovely Mrs. Borengasser asks.
“Absolutely,” I assure her. “I think I’ll call it the ‘Look-At-Yourself-Naked-In-A-Full-Length-Mirror-At-Least-Once-A-Day-Diet.’ It can’t miss.” Suddenly, I feel excited by the prospects. Success looms in our future. “Please pass me some more of that scrumptious Styrofoam,” I say.
“Those are rice cakes,” she informs me.
“And by the way,” I continue, “this celery is terrific. What’s your secret?”
“I washed it.”
“My compliments.”