Sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar

Sweet Jesus H. Jones! What the hell have you done to me, Vino? I’m shaking like a leaf. I’m positively trembling. Is there such a thing as sugar poisoning? I only had two.

Two cinnamon rolls.

With extra sugar-sugar-orange-and-sugar frosting.

For breakfast...


Captain Vino baked a half-dozen for me yesterday for my birthday before he and Plonk took me out for a purely orgasmic meal at the Mono Cliffs Inn and Orgasmry. The Cap’n is clearly evil and bent on keeping me fat - or chaste - one or the other. You see, the elicit sweetheart has finally - at my urging - worked out a system of abstinence and reward to legislate my weight-loss endeavors - the details of which are unprintable and that’s all I’ll say about that before I go getting all embarrassed.

Dear gawd, my teeth are tingling.

I need to get to the grocery store before the big game starts (our beloved N.Y. Jets are playing the Evil Evil Slimy New England Slime-Patriots in a do-or-die playoff match) and since it’ll be on the glass tit for a change I’ll be staying home to watch it. And of course there’s no better way to celebrate the big game than with an official FWG Hot Dog Festival.

I’m thinking I could use a walk. Maybe if I burn off a few of these eight billion turbo-calories it’ll calm me down. Maybe my eyeballs will stop rattling.

There’s a sad-ass mini-grocery a block away so I hit the street. It’s wonderfully mild for January. No sunshine of course, but mild. We won’t get a glimpse of the sun around here for another couple months yet - just when we’ve forgotten that one exists. But that’s fine with me right now. I’m so full of sugar I’d probably melt.

Here’s all the shops I pass on the way that sell sugary bakery products. I repeat - these are all within a single block of my home:

Starbucks Coffee
Second Cup
Swirlz Cupcakes
The Tea Room
Town Talk Bakery
Murphy’s Ice Cream Parlour

It’s a fat man’s hell - this neighborhood but today I stroll on by these landmines with nary a glance. ‘No thanks, I’m sweet enough…’

Oh goody! They have hot dog buns in stock at Ye Olde Sad Ass Mini Grocery. Excellent. I choose the plain little ones. I like them best ‘cause they offer the best meat-per-bread ratio. And I get the regular little weiners. Nothing fancy. I prefer weiners to sausages. I’m a little different that way.

Um. That’s not a euphemism of any sort, by the way. We’re strictly talking food here.

Ooh! What's this? Incense! I love incense! I collect every variety I can find. Well, almost. I'm not so hot on the flowery ones. There's a nice selection here. Thirty varieties. Mix and match. The sign reads:

5 for $1.00 or 10 for $2.00

My head falls forward and a long sigh escapes me. This seems to take some of the tsunami out of my sails.

I turn my back on the incense display and scoop a 2L bottle of diet Coke and a carton of 10% cream. I read the label to ensure I have authentic 10% cream here that will actually taste like 10% cream and not some insipid 5% cream in disguise.

I'm half-way home before I finally take note that she's packed all my stuff into one rather small plastic bag and my buns are getting squished. Oh well. Nothing wrong with tight compact buns - What?? Why are you all looking at me like that? Stop it. It just means I can eat more. Maybe I'll get through the whole damn eight-pack for once.

Ugh. I've just got to lose this damn sugar-frenzy. Nothing gets me more hyper than a Jets playoff game and nothing gets me more aggravated then outrageously stupid TV commercials - the kind which football telecasts tend to draw out in alarming numbers. Throw in the sugar fit and this could be a recipe for disaster. It's one o'clock. Game starting. Catch you later.

Ugh. I'm exhausted. It's half-time. The New England Turdsniffers lead 17-10. Oops. Did I say Turdsniffers? I meant - Patriots. Excuse me. Freudian slip.

I haven't done too badly actually. Only threw one thing. One of the two pens from my shirt pocket. Launched it clear across the living room, down the hallway and onto the kitchen floor where it almost skidded into the dining room. But not quite. Very sadly, this was a better throw than any heaved by Jets QB Chad Pennington during the half. I also whacked my notebook against the arm of the comfy chair eight or thirty-eight times finally cracking the cover and wrinkling some pages. No biggie. Still useable.

What else? Screamed some choice words of course but not to the point that authorities were called. Here's some of my more brilliant utterances:

"Ugghhh! Stop running up the !@#!## middle!! You're getting !@#!##ing stuffed every time!!"

"Yes! Yes! Yes! Take that!! Touchdown! [screams like schoolgirl] How'd you like that you bitch!"

"Ugghhh! My !@#!##ing god! Are you !@#!##ing kidding me? How the !@#!## can you not defend against such an obvious stupid-ass pass play? !@#!##!!"

"Get out of bounds!!! Get out of bounds!!! Uggggghhhhhhhhh!!! You're killing the clock!!! @#!##! [whack whack whack] You moron!! You !@#!##er!! Get off this goddam team, you !@#@#!!"


They're interviewing Shawn Merriman of the San Diego Chargers. I guess he's an offensive lineman. I guess they couldn't get Ladainian Tomlinson or anyone interesting.

"I think the Jets are gonna win this game," says Merriman, "Cause they just playin' pretty good right now."

That's right Shawn. That's what they doin'. They playin' so gosh darn pretty good right now they losin' by 7. But thank you Shawn. With geniuses like you on our side - we can't lose.

I must go console myself with a hot dog festival.

Later.


I'm inconsolable. The hot dogs didn't do it for me. I had eight. Can you believe it? My previous record was five. What an accomplishment eh? I'm breaking down barriers, people. I'm clearing the world of hot dogs - one eight-pack at a time.

The Jets are down 23-13. They won't win. New England's just too good. God, I hate them.

Dear God, Please give all the people of New England bubonic plague. Amen.

See - this is proof there's no such thing as god. When all the New Englanders don't get the plague. That'll cinch it.

FWG