by viv sade
Between her and me — a 10-year gluten-free freak, which is Latin for painintheass — going to a restaurant is a big deal for us and an ordeal for the waitress.
We tip well. We have to, otherwise there would be toenails and saliva and god knows what else in our vegetable-oil-sauted-organic-gluten-free-tofu-steaks.
My friend— uh, let’s call her Becky — (NOTE: all names similar to or the exact same as my real friends are purely coincidental) — not only avoids all meat, but inquires as to whether or not the food is prepared with any animal products, such as a chicken stock base. That’s too much work for me. Being gluten free is like following a paleo (think: Caveman) diet. This is Indiana. Throw a half a cow on a platter and call it a day. Double-deep fry a stick of butter in pig fat and I’m good to go.
Becky is not a vegetarian because she loves animals. She is a vegetarian because she hates plants.
I’ve never been able to diet and I suck at exercising. The second I think “D-I-E-T,” I crave a triple Big Mac with double bacon. And, I get enough exercise just pushing my luck.
Daily Atkins Menu
Breakfast: Deep fried sow, scrambled eggs in heavy cream sauce and a dozen cheese sticks
A.M. snack: Four pounds of bacon and a wheel of Colby with whipped cream
Lunch: Two lambs, three ducks and a partridge in a pear tree
P.M. snack: Pork crackling nachos with whale blubber and ostrich egg and butter salsa
Dinner: A black Angus steer and two cheesecakes with pork rind crusts
Atkins followers are single-handedly to blame for the extinction of the animal species.
I have to admit, at recent dinner parties I have been serving Atkins-type meals. My plan is to fatten up everyone else around me so that I will look thinner.
This is not hard to do when one considers that the casket adds 165 pounds to the ones who have keeled over with a heart attack.