needs a manual to eat
eat it, don't learn it
So I've decided to finally go on an actual diet. The Brown Bear we all know and love is getting a little robusto, shall we say, and it is totally unbecoming. Sure it entertains the boys when my belly jiggles as I laugh, like a naughty jello mold of love, but I don't want the old lady's eyes to start to wander to slightly less fat brown bears, so I gotta do something. Plus the ability to stick my wiener in my belly button by splorching the fat roll over it, while feeling awesome, is not cool and apparently not legal if done in a supermarket.
I kid, I wish I could hump my own bellybutton, with all the lint and crap in there it oughta be pretty sassy, but no. Now I have been working out pretty religiously for the past year and a half or so, and have little to show for it except slightly solidified fat muscles and buns of rock hard steel. Stevester needs a new plan.
I came to the realization that maybe my diet had a little to do with me weighing 278 poundarinos. I seem to remember Natasha eating salads all the time, actively slimming down in front of me as I squirted mayonnaise packets on my donuts and pretending it was frosting. (interesting side note, "pretend it's frosting" is apparently how you know you've made a friend for life in most correctional facilities in this fine country) While I am secretly envious of her ability to have such great restraint, only sniffing donuts and then all of us standing around while Santa giggled them down his throat on his way to fellate Greyskull (I know thats wrong but I cannot find how to make an active verb out of cunnilingus, and anyway you get the damn point), I knew that was a person to model my dietary life after. Minus the non-cinnamon flavored applesauce, because thats disgusting.
So anyway, I have a few options. I have a gym here, and a wii fit at home which I have actually worked up a mayonnaise-infused sweat on a few times, and I have recently started making my main food of the day salad. Salad drenched in ranch dressing with a side of bacon, but lets not get into particulars.
My man-body (doesn't it somehow sound nastier when you say it like that?) had taken this most unwelcome change in stride, and had acted with an air of disdain, much as it usually did when my double whopper with cheese came with too much lettuce on it.
I guess the combination of that and sleep deprivation (for some reason or another, I have not been to bed before 130 in the last month or so and, much like Smeagol when someone wakes him up after 14 hours of sleep, it was starting to take a toll on my body. Well, something had to give and I think last night was it.
It was about 3 in the morning, and Queen Latifah had just come out of the depths of the jacuzzi to tell me "the royal penis is clean, Lord Stevester" while not holding any soap and with her lipstick smeared, jeremy in the background cuddling Smeagol while my Yorkie dry-humped The Thinker statue into submission, when something woke me up. A fart?! I started to scooch up so I could blow a concentrated heat blast into my lovely wife's face, when I realized it felt vaguely familiar, but not like a fart....good gravy! I leapt off the bed and made it into the bathroom just in time to give the inside of the toilet a nice thick coat of mud monkey chunky. This continued for the better part of an hour: thinking I was finished, getting up and making it almost back to the bed before having to run back, comically holding my ass with both hands. The only thing that ended up giving me some sleep was when I went into the kitchen and devoured the grilled stuffed shrimp and almost an entire half gallon of chocolate milk, along with a few handfuls of Cheetos.
Stevester - 0, Man-Gut - 1.
We will meet again, you fiend!