I Ate You So Much

This is the apple  perfect for my morning oatmeal regimin.  Tart, crisp and winey.  I dice them up with the skin on and toss them into the water to boil up a bit before the oats go in(only the perfect cubes go in; the irregular-shaped ones I gobble up, kinda like a momma crocodile does when the babies hatch).  Raisins, cinnamon, Splenda, and butter(half as much as I want to add, which is still probably too much) get added later.  A staple meal in my weight-loss endeavors.  Which reminds me. . .

Part of my job’s insurance program is having a health advisor give you a quartly review.  A different lady every quarter

asks you questions about your eating habits and the physicality of your lifestyle.  These ladies are also out-of-touch bitches.

Case in point: when I last talked to one and told her about my oatmeal recipe, she told me, “well, as long as it’s a small

apple.”  I told her that it’s usually a pretty small Gala apple.

What I wanted to say was “BITCH ARE YOU TRYING TO REGULATE MY APPLE INTAKE FOR REAL?  FUCKING APPLES?”  It’s not like I said “I only add a 13.9 oz. bag of Doritos.”  A 6’1″ man can eat as many apples as he wants, and they can be pumpkin sized.  I would lose 100 pounds.

One of my friends in elementary school was a small Viking named Adam French.  Once, as elementary-school-aged boys are wont to do, Adam took a handfull of cafeteria lunch tater tots, squeezed them together in his stout fist, and made a rivulet of grease meander from his hand and form a pool in the crook of his elbow.

That was it.  No more tater tots for me ever since.

There is the most pleasant surprise waiting in select french fry orders from Burger King.  No, it’s not a restraining order against the Creepy King, who I kind of like*; it’s a random, lost onion ring.  How do you savor it?  Do you save it for last?  Do you playfully tease it with the in-and-out of a turgid fry?  Do you toss it in the fiery lake for your boyfriend Samwise?  I, personally, wished I had asked the window lady for some of that Zesty Sause, all of which I would eat with that one errant ring.

Finding that tater tot, however, puts me in a horrible mental predicament; having to waste food.  My food guilt runs so deep that I can’t even bring myself to waste that one tot.  Is this what sex addicts do?  “Yes, she had a 70’s-era prosthesis, and her hoo-ha looked about medium well, but. . . ”

But what?  Yes, I ate it.  I hate you, tater tot.

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*after these BK Breakfast Bowl commercials, with the flute solos?  Ya’ll better be kissing Creepy King’s pinky ring when he comes strollin’ back in.