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.”