[Humor] Atkins Diet

[MooCow]

Stolen from the Star Tribune -- http://www.startribune.com/stories/804/

This is day nine of the Atkins regimen, and I have lost 147 pounds. I weigh less than my photo. I did not know it was possible to lose more weight than you had in the first place; all I know is that if I wish to use one of those automatic doors that opens when you step on it, I have to drag a brick along or it doesn't work.

Yes, I know. Atkins is so last year. Everyone's doing the South Beach Diet now. Next month, this paper will run a story about the North Shore diet, where you eat only hot dish and walleye intestines. But I don't want a diet that requires a book; I don't want recipes, meal plans, charts, Richard Simmons Deal a Meal cards, point systems. I don't want my eating habits to be slightly less complicated than the checklist for a shuttle launch. Hence the appeal of Atkins. It can be summed up simply: You know all that stuff you avoided on your last diet? Eat it. For breakfast. Twice. Wash it down with a quart of mayo. DON'T EXERCISE. STAY ABSOLUTELY STILL. And watch the pounds just melt away!

I didn't need to lose a lot. I don't eat much junk, and I'm fairly twitchy, so I've avoided that Orson Welles physique that plagues many middle-aged men. But I'm not the stork-thin Ichabod I was in the '90s, either. Of course, I speed-walked 6 miles a day and smoked like a bitter European intellectual back then, and I still had youth on my side. Then came Toddler™. I ditched the smokes and gained 10 pounds. In a day, I swear. I stubbed out the last butt, said "Well, that's the end of that" and the button of my jeans popped out and pinged off the wall. The phone rang; I picked it up.

"Hello, this is the American Cigarette Council, and we fully support your decision to quit."

"How did you know? What -- "

"We applaud your decision to greatly reduce your health risks by quitting now. And on behalf of the pants industry, we'd like to welcome you to waist sizes you previously regarded with smug contempt. Have a nice day without the harmful, delicious, aromatic blend of Turkish and Virginia tobaccos interacting with the grateful cilia of your lungs. You lardo."

I used to wear 28s. Within two years I was wearing 31s because they were loose, and made me feel thin. I knew where this was headed: In another few years I'd be one of those human skin-omelettes, a fleshy Hefty bag confined to bed, washing myself with a rag on a stick, dragged out of a gaping hole in the wall when I wanted to leave the house. Obviously, I needed to start a vigorous regimen of smoking and walking. I could write a diet book! "Cough Yourself Thin."

Or I could eat quad-patty burgers for every meal. Atkins it was, then. Here's my new diet.

Breakfast: Sixty-seven eggs with cheese. Fourteen strips of bacon washed down with the drippings. The plates are made of sausage; save those for last. If someone offers juice, recoil in horror: Are you trying to KILL me?

Your juiceless future is the hardest thing to accept at first; after all, nothing says Healthful Morning Breakfast like a bright orange glass of citric goodness, but there are 10 billion carbs in a single juice molecule. You could have some toast, but no-carb bread costs too much. All the Atkins stuff is preposterously priced. A package of lo-carb pancake mix costs $6.19. Apparently the process of extracting carbs is hideously expensive. Probably requires zero gravity. That's what they're doing on the International Space Station. It's one big orbital Atkins factory.

Lunch: a small pig.

Supper: Now we get down to the serious business. Good news: It's steak time! Bad news: It's steak time! Again! Somewhere in the second week of your new regimen you'll actually weep at the thought of another bacon-wrapped filet mignon. I can't do it. I just can't. I've eaten 2.3 cows in the past week. I had a tongue smoothie for an afternoon snack and a butt-steak non-dairy sundae with Bac-o-Bits sprinkles for dessert.

You beg to the ghost of Dr. Atkins: Please, sir, a carrot. One small tiny fresh wet crunchy baby carrot. Don't tell me to mince some steak and form it into the shape of a carrot. I can't do it. I need milk! Can't I have milk? It comes from cows! Can't we call it liquid steak?

This is the hardest phase, and it passes. I've jumped the hump; I'm in that blissful state of ketosis psychosis. I have an absurd amount of energy, and frankly I've never felt better. When I've lost a few more pounds, I'll start cutting back on the meat.

Because these daily heart attacks are really getting annoying. Did you know that the ambulances hand out punch cards? They do. My 10th myocardial infarction will be absolutely free.

[Liniah]

You know why no one ever responded to this thread? They opened it, thought to themselves 'I'm not going to read all that', and then moved on.