I need a dietary intervention. I once saw a show called Intervention where someone was struggling with drug abuse, so all his family members held a meeting to confront him on his negative behaviors. They told him how much he needed to change.
I have been eating so poorly that I need an intervention. A few days ago I only had a few minutes away from work to grab lunch. I actually stopped at Subway to get a semi-healthy lunch. But the line reached to Massachusetts. One woman had been waiting so long that she decided to catch a power nap. So I left. Time was dwindling, so I did what any rushed American with absolutely no self-respect would do. I stopped at the gas station and got a large Coke/Diet Coke fountain drink, a large peanut butter cookie, and a nasty gas station hot dog.
Yes, dear friend. I ate one of those gas station hot dogs. You know, the ones on the rollers that have been there since April? Fear not, I put some nacho cheese on the hot dog to drown out the taste of toxic mold and bacteria. Starving children in Ethiopia would not eat one of those things. You have permission to slap me.
And then the very next day my minimal amount of self-control went on vacation. And I ate a huge plate of carne asada fries:
I was almost positive that this one meal alone would clog every artery in my body. I told the wife to keep the car keys handy because I'd need a quick trip to the ER in a few minutes when my heart attack started. I will let you know what room I'm in at the hospital. So you can bring me a peanut butter cookie.