True confession time:
I have a weight issue.
Well, I don’t have the issue, I kind of like the way light bends around me when I walk—but my wife and my doctor think that I could stand to lose the not-so-secret store of Ho-hos and Ring Dings that I carry around my waist. And they’re correct. Being of Italian descent not only means I have to put up with people asking “Do you know any mobsters?” (I reply, “Luca Brazi sleeps with the fishes,” let them figure it out), but it also means I am predisposed to a hairy back and a hairless head (proof, once again, that God does have a sense of humor). It also means that I may end up with a body the size of a small satellite (as in moon not dish, though a dish of Moonpies sure sounds good). Of course, it’s my own fault that I wear the same size pants as Yang-yang the Panda.
Ok, that’s actually an excerpt from a column I wrote about
trail trial lawyers suing fast food companies on behalf of ‘supersized sofa spuds’ (was my bias obvious), but it seemed like an appropriate opening for this weeks topic. And, for those who are keeping score (just in case my doctor is reading this) I am down to a svelte 218–18 pounds to go. Now if only I weren’t 4 foot 3.
Anyway, this topic really didn’t grab me so I resorted to visual puns. Have fun.
Your comments are always appreciated.