Musing Of A Muddled Male

Stumpy

By Bob Stevens, The Muddled Male

       Ann, my wife, and I are having another argument.  This one is not a minor disagreement.  It is, in the words of Ann, a matter of life and death.  She thinks it is my fault.  I am claiming that I am just getting old and that causes my addictions to grow, and health issues to escalate.  Especially during the Christmas time of year when I am surrounded by goodies left at our home by generous friends.

       My addiction is sugar.  My health issue is diabetes.  Ann is claiming that I am in control of the problem.  I am claiming that the problem is in control of me.  It's not my fault that food tastes best when coated with chocolate.  Ann wants me to eat health food which tastes like cardboard since it has no salt, no sugar, no French fry fat, no cholesterol, and, from my perspective, no flavor.

       When Ann orders a scrumptious hamburger she has them hold the salt, hold the dressing, hold the onions, and make certain that there are no French fries unless they have been placed between two paper towels and stomped-on to remove any remnants of the cooking oil that gives them flavor.  She does allow a pickle, if it has been run through the dishwasher to remove salt and sugar, and she will occasionally drink a small glass of unflavored water that has been strained to make certain that there is no possibility of sweet nutrients finding their way into the glass.

       My idea of a scrumptious burger is to double the dressing, melt on a thick slice of cheddar, ask the cook to pile on a few deep fried onion rings, and fill the plate with curly fries.  Then I wash the whole thing down with a Vanilla shake for that much needed hint of sweet that is needed to make the salt taste better.  Or is it the salt that makes the shake taste better?

       Ann says that I will know that she is right when they start cutting off my appendages because of the lack of circulation in my extremities.  When I expire, she claims, she will be able to save money by burying me in a shoebox since there won't be enough of me left to need more room than a shoebox provides.  On top of that she says she will tape a sign to the lid that says, "Don't be sad, he did it to himself."  She is guessing that along with my other extremities they will probably have to cut off my nose, which will let her save the cost of a full shoebox and instead use a shallow sandals box.

       She can't bully me.  I think I will go eat some of the candy and cookies that Santa’s elves left along with those my friends snuck in to keep me from going into withdrawal.

And with that I say, “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all.  And to all, good night.”

P.S.  Ann claims that she knows I can control my eating if I wanted, because once I managed to be a good boy for three months and my A1c was 6.5.  I claim that three months of being a good boy out of eighty years of living is all that can be expected of a normally naughty boy.