December Needs to End Before it Kills Me

Dudes, it has been FOREVER since we talked. What the hell is wrong with me? Oh yeah, it’s December. Which is kind of like the opposite of that show “The Biggest Loser.” We’re all on a fat-train to hell, and it’s stopping at a donut shop, a chicken shack, and a burger joint (twice) before we get there. I mean, seriously? I could eat all day. We already went through the whole freaky-ass holiday dessert story, so let’s just call it what it is…if December doesn’t end soon, I may die.

And not in the figurative emo-eyeliner wearing hipster kind of die.

I mean, clogged-arteries-sugar-coma kind of die. Not that I’m usually this unhealthy (I run, I play racquetball, I occasionally take the stairs), but in December the wheels are off the fucking bus when it comes to any kind of fitness. You see, much like the rest of you, I suffer from a syndrome I have dubbed BusyLazyitis. It’s a technical term. It’s basically that we’re all busy as hell and then when we aren’t busy, we are lazy bitches wrapped in Snuggies watching television and scarfing down treats like there’s no tomorrow.

You know who you are. In the pink bunny footie pajamas.

I know. I know. We should all take better care of ourselves. We should all live in moderation. I say BULLSHIT, it’s December. We’re weak. We’re so easily manipulated into one more cookie, one more slice of pie, and for the love of Pete pass that bowl of gravy. Because if wanting that hot, salty gravy goodness is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

I’m totally glad that the holiday season is coming to a close, even though it means we are locked in until Spring. I need to detox like Lindsay Lohan after a long weekend in Vegas….or actually, just any day if you’re Lindsay Lohan. I will miss the constant barrage of bizarro-food, and also the constant joy of days off. But it’s getting out of hand, I tellya….getting OUT OF HAND.

If you need in on this intervention, we meet on Thursdays at the donut shop on Main.

And yes, they will dip that glazed number in a vat of fudge if you ask.

What? You can’t expect me to quit cold turkey? Mmmm. Turkey.

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