OK, here it is. I was a Fat Guy! Since February 4, 2022, I have lost 75 pounds, 25 to go. There’s no one to blame but myself for getting that big. The magic formula . . . . too much food + too little exercise = Fat Guy! Gosh, I feel like a scientist.
When I was a small child in the mid 50s, McDonald’s was just beginning 
the surge of fast food establishments. In 1955 Ray Kroc opened the first franchise outside Chicago. The original McDonald’s opened in 1940. Many of you probably know the origin and history of the company from The History Channel or Food TV. So, I won’t bore you with the details of when they began and how they have grown. If you are unaware of the history and want to read about it, check out the following link Mickey D’s. I’m not here to pick on McDonald’s, but they are often cited as a leading cause of the Obesity Crisis in America, and a Boomer Icon.
It’s as if the Obesity Crisis magically occurred. A Plague struck us when no one was looking. We grew immense and it’s all the fault of the food vendors. Or so the frivolous lawsuits would have us believe. On July 23, 2002, Caesar Barber filed a lawsuit against McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken and Burger King (he got around), claiming they were responsible for the 272-pound Bronx resident’s obesity, two
heart attacks and diabetes. Now, I don’t know how tall this fellow is, but for him to be considered ideal weight would mean he’d have to be somewhere in the neighborhood of the height of an adolescent oak tree. Did it not dawn on him that he was eating too much and growing in stature? Was the increase in waist size over the years not a hint? Like I said earlier, “Hello . . . . I was a Fat Guy!”
If we believe the fast food business is responsible for our largeness, let’s develop a scenario of how they did it. They probably have a back room where unsuspecting patrons are strapped to a chair, while infinite burgers, fries (you know you like the fries) and deep-fried things are shoved in their gullets, washing it all down with super-sized 
milk shakes. It’s their fault for making stuff people like to eat! We should probably require them to put warnings on the wrappers, “Caution! Eating too much of this can possibly cause obesity, which can lead to high cholesterol, high blood pressure, diabetes and heart attacks!” Duh. I guess it goes along with the other self-inflicted diseases we struggle with these days but blame everyone else for causing. But why waste the print on the warnings? No one will pay attention, even if they are old enough to read. Just buy bigger clothes and help the sweat suit industry (eventually they’ll be sued for making us look frumpy).
How many chins, asses and excess folds of flesh do we have to grow before we get it? No problem, they developed pills to make it OK for us to keep eating and eating and eating. High cholesterol? Take a pill. High blood pressure? Take a pill. I know, I do. How many occasions does your workplace celebrate with cake, ice cream, cookies, and donuts?
Celebratory salads, celery sticks, tofu, and carrots just aren’t considered festive. But stick a candle in a cake and everybody sings, applauds and gorges. Probably the #1 song in the world is “Happy Birthday.” We all know the words. They even have ridiculous renditions of it at restaurants, sung by the help, clapping their hands in a silly way, while they are delivering the dessert to your table, as you feign embarrassment and surprise.
I don’t mean to be preachy, but I feel the need to confess and purge my soul. Don’t blame the food guys for being overweight if you are a victim of the Obesity Crisis. Blame your right or left hand for the inability to put down the fork, spoon, knife, glass, fingers, or whatever conveyance is used during your gluttony. Just remember . . when losing weight, 80% is diet, 20% is exercise. I like those percentages.
With Love,
Bake My Fish
hungry. Chicken tenders and wings have become old hat, and nachos or chili go in easy and exit violently. What to order? What? Then the hot waitress or waiter you’ve been ogling and hoping may find you appealing, suggests sliders.
taverns and restaurants lately, and now’s your chance to check them out. Hell, even 
trade. Then in 1928 Harry Duncan relocated from Louisville, KY to Washington, DC and opened the 
were cooked. The “chef” would line the grill with little balls of meat, with chopped onions and fry a bunch, then place them on the small buns along with a pickle and store them covered by a damp towel in a drawer under the grill.
sandwiches that needed to be heated in their toaster ovens (microwaves weren’t available), so my late-night meals were three LT deathballs and a cup of coffee. I’m not one who usually goes for coffee with anything other than breakfast. It just sort of says, “I’m an old fart and don’t care anymore.” Coffee with dinner just doesn’t seem right. But, at Club LT the coffee was delicious, served in the thick mugs that somehow made it better. Not to mention, I needed the caffeine buzz to continue working.
driving zone, my favorite cab stand was the College Park Little Tavern, referred to by the cab company as “The Ritz.” Since this location was right across the street from the 
, but “Buy ’em by the bag” was the slogan. When Harry started the business, burgers were a nickel, so walking out with a bag full was a pretty easy task. You could feed the whole family.
living on in its evolved form. The next time you’re at the Green Turtle, Burger King, Chili’s or any place advertising sliders, think of Harry Duncan as you bite into your order. They’re no longer a nickel, and probably not as good, but three deathballs and coffee always hit the spot.
Do you remember the 2008 Burger King 
absence of it can lead to blood-sucking intruders flying into our homes or accosting us in dark alleys and draining our fluids.
During the 50s men wore hats all the time. It was a part of the business uniform. An insurance salesman coming to your home to sit at the kitchen table and sell you policies usually wore a fedora or maybe a bowler. They were stylish and tasteful. But the guys in the Burger King commercials looked kind of stupid. “Sorry, Mr. Transylvania 
Man if I am hurting your feelings, but you should rethink your wardrobe.” If there is something festive about the accessory, then maybe you should keep it “under your hat.” I’m afraid seeing you in public will cause me to stare or snicker. It just doesn’t seem worth the comparison of the flame-broiled, 1/4-pound beef patty, with lettuce, mayonnaise, pickles, tomatoes, onions, ketchup on a sesame seed bun to the two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.
them are used to hide baldness or the lack of shampooing. It’s easier to throw on a cap and ride to the nearest breakfast drive-thru than it is to take a shower and clean the hair. I haven’t noticed anyone in my neighborhood wearing the silly Transylvania hats displayed in the BK commercials. So, “Come on Burger King, show what they really wear.” There is no way they are donning the ridiculous lids portrayed in the 
advertisements. If they are, then my appreciation of differing cultures is being challenged, and I will have to laugh with the rest of the world. Those hats were comical.
in some sort of hysterical display, like an Organ Grinder’s Monkey. If you watched the commercials, you know what I mean. It cracked me up every time I saw them, and I wonder if the “actors” felt as silly as they looked. I’m sure they weren’t really Vampires; most likely American Thespians with a Transylvania look, possessing dark, evil eyes.
paranoid. But, if I wake up some night and there is a bat in a hat hovering over my bed, I’m gonna dress up like Ronald McDonald, hunt down the Burger King and kick his ass.
I really enjoyed the movie Good Morning, Vietnam. Robin Williams was terrific in his role as 
Vietnam (
sized trunk, making it possible to smuggle my girlfriend into the 
drink at a bar named The End Zone. At the time we only had to be eighteen to qualify for suds in Washington. My drinking partner was a friend, Ronnie Floyd, who had recently been drafted by the Army, but when he went to 
joked with my parents about wrecking my car. Some joke. After celebrating Ronnie’s imminent tour in Vietnam for a few hours, I said goodbye to him and got in my car for the ride to Landover, where my family was living at the time. Of course, I shouldn’t have been driving, but in those days, no one paid much attention to that sort of thing, so while traveling NE on Alabama Avenue I began to slide in the snow, taking out a police call box. Oopsie Daisy! 
The upper half of the box landed in the back seat of the car, and the lower half was dragged several hundred feet under the vehicle,
destroying all the hardware necessary for it to operate, as I experienced the twirling sleigh ride from hell, stopping at the corner of Alabama and Massachusetts Avenues. After looking around for Angels or pitchforks and realizing life would continue, I found the nearest pay phone (since the call box was useless) and called my parents.
went to DC and hit the Recruiter’s office. I signed up for the Air Force because it was my best chance not to be wallowing in the mud in ‘Nam. After taking their exam I qualified for several positions and agreed to enlist under the first one available, which was in the administrative category. Whew! I avoided the draft. After Basic Training and Technical School, I was sent to Taiwan. My Radar O’Reilly career was beginning.
The United States maintained a presence in that country following the 1949 fall of China to the Communist regime (Peoples Republic of China) of 
beautiful. Imagine a tropical paradise, where you spend most of the day dodging bicycles, scooters, motorcycles, taxis and pedestrians, in overcrowded conditions, and you have a pretty good idea. Taiwan is bisected by the Tropic of Cancer, so the weather in Tainan is similar to Havana, Cuba (without the Castros). I was delighted to be there.
that was deep fried and probably unhealthy, but “Oh so good.” I’m not sure my etiquette was acceptable, but I dipped the bread stick in the soy milk and enjoyed my “Ugly American self.” I was on a four-year vacation and didn’t care what anyone thought.
One of my favorite activities in Taiwan was eating from street vendors (we called them Noodle Stands). As a young, naive kid, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it and contamination was not a concern. Everything was boiled or deep-fried and just awesome, with just the right sauces and spice. From 1895 to 1945 Taiwan was occupied by the Japanese, influencing the variety of foods. Fried tofu (smelled like feet), squid, snake, various poultry parts, eel, frog, noodles; you name it, I ate it. I’m sure today, based on my recent experience with 
Tainan Air Base was situated next to Air Asia (Air America- CIA), and our job was basically to keep the Communist Chinese from overtaking the island and providing support for activities in Vietnam. For me, it was renting a house off base for less than $40 a month and partying with my friends. In the Communications Center we manned an old switchboard, probably left over from the 
Korean War (thus the Radar reference). Within the “secret” area we operated a General Dynamics computer that was a combination teletype, card reader, magnetic tape reader, and printer, very high tech for the time. In the building next door, there was the radio station, American Forces Network Taiwan, which was the only station in southern Taiwan to broadcast in English. If you open this 
Chinese Air Force Academy in 
The Chinese like to eat. Their parties consist of many dishes on the table, where everyone partakes, family-style. But the officers, particularly the General in charge of the school, liked Johnny Walker Black; however, they did not sip the beverage, they swilled. Every time a drink was poured one of them would shout “Gambei!” and we would all tilt our heads back and shoot the beverage down our gullets. After several “down the hatches” the food and drink were not sitting so well. Eventually, it was time to grab the toilet bowl with both hands, on my knees, and rid myself of the evening’s offerings. In the adjacent stall of the men’s room, it was obvious someone was experiencing the same ordeal. I exited my area for clean up, and guess who came out of the other stall to do the same? The General. He smiled, then laughed and patted me on the back, while slurring something in Chinese. Apparently, I had made a friend. Who would have thought Johnny Walker was such a matchmaker?
interested in auditioning for a part-time position as a weekend broadcaster. It was volunteer work but would be a lot of fun. I jumped at the opportunity and as soon as my shift was over, stopped by to meet with the Station Manager. He gave me a script to read, I passed the test, and “poof” I was given the job. My show was Saturday
morning at 6:00 AM, in between Wolf Man Jack and Bob Kinglsey (both on tape), and Sunday at 8:00, right after a religious show (yeah, they were probably politically incorrect, but no one complained). From March 1972 through February 1973, I was a small-time star.
known as the Young Rascals). During every show, a young girl would call and ask to hear 
The Stooges (which had to be smuggled into the studio because they didn’t have anything commercially acceptable), Dr. John, and Humble Pie. I was having a blast, playing air guitar and banging pencils on the console like a wannabe drummer. Then the phone rang. It was the Station Manager. “You know, Bob, we have people stationed here with varying musical tastes. We are the only English Language station in Southern Taiwan; therefore, our people might want to hear something they like, rather than just what you like. So, could you mix it up somewhat and refrain from playing just the hard stuff at 8:00 in the morning?” That’s all he said, but I got his point and grabbed some Frank Sinatra, Johnny Cash, and Stevie Wonder from the library. My morning became a little more boring for me, but the job was secure.
Suppose the Pilgrims decided to have pigeon for dinner instead of turkey; how would we be different? The common pigeon is everywhere, crapping on everything. What if it was a turkey? The load would be greater and statues would deteriorate at a much faster pace. Turkeys are beautiful, pigeons are “Eh.” But, if pigeons were celebrated like turkeys, where would we be?
about cranberry sauce? Would the vile condiment be as good with pigeon? I hate it anyway, but those who like it might be put off. There would be more wish bones for the kids, but smaller legs for the fathers. Carving would be quicker for Dad, too.
“gobble,” what would 
more room for turkeys, and there would be a danger of letting the birds loose from the roofs. They could very well fall upon unsuspecting passersby. Old men on fixed incomes, sitting on park benches, would have to spend more to feed turkeys.
really don’t eat much squab. I don’t recall seeing it on a menu recently. But, it is considered a delicacy. I would have a tough time with a squab leg being deposited on my plate with a message tied to it. Kind of like a fortune cookie. When I pass a pigeon on the street, I don’t think of food. If that pigeon were a turkey, a homeless person could eat for a week. I’m not sure they are eating pigeon, but a turkey would be hard to resist.
be busy enjoying stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie, beer, wine and liquor. I doubt any of us will be considering pigeon. But, if the Pilgrims chose the bird we take for granted and consider more of a pest than a morsel, pigeon would be the featured dish.
Many of you reading this probably attended the 
chatter going and suppress the thought of the fair. Even though I had agreed to go earlier in the week, it was not an enthusiastic endorsement. Then it came up. “What time do you want to leave for the fair?” she asked. “Do we really have to go?” I whined. “It’s kind of hot now, and later on, it’ll be too hot.” “You don’t want to go?” she asked, in that sort of wife way that tells you she’s annoyed, but not angry. “We don’t do much on the weekend,” she continued. The guilt honed-in and my love of hanging out at home was challenged. As a society we spend about a third of our life sleeping. Another third working. We spend a substantial amount of our income buying a home and equipping it with entertainment and furnishings so we can enjoy our stay. Personally, I want to hang out at my abode. But, I don’t want to be a creep and sloth of a husband, so I agreed to attend the fair. Fun, fun, fun. After all, the tickets are eight dollars each, and we have two, so we’re saving $16.
we made it with ease. The bowling alley across from the Fairgrounds was offering parking for $5.00. Another bargain. We pulled in and parked, and thus far our afternoon was thrifty.
that they have to be dipped in batter, and fried in the grease pit called a fryer? Those cookers have never contained zero-trans fat anything, and I doubt the grease has been cleaned during the entire event, and we were there the next-to-last day. No, thanks. I’ll pass on the “treats.” My mind was tuned to the thought of some lamb. Mmmmm. I like lamb.
high enough to prevent illness. The servers are using utensils, and some are wearing plastic gloves, in compliance with the lenient Board of Health rules. But, the tongs and gloves are used over and over, without cleaning or changing, so we have to trust the heat is high enough to kill anything living within the grub.
eating a pile of deep fried Oreos. They were both wearing fanny packs, no doubt stuffed with goodies of some type. The wife used a napkin to sop up the food-lube, and I thought, “To what food group does that belong?
There were a couple of bouts in the mid-morning with bathroom visits, but not an unusual number of sittings for me. Things seemed on par with daily life. At noon I had my sandwich at my desk, all the while feeling a bit groggy, attributing it more to age than illness. Around 2:00, the “boys” took over as I rushed to the latrine, in a state of emergency. I was feeling downright funky. After returning to my office, I packed up my things and left without saying anything to anyone, because I was feeling putrid. I drove home, clenching all the way, and made it to the potty (think Jeff Daniels in Dumb and Dumber). My dog was sitting 
outside the door because I had not properly greeted her upon my entrance. Little did I know at the time, she was in for a lengthy stay with Daddy. I changed into my home clothes and laid on the couch for a nap, and Holly joined me.
might be next. The difficulty I was experiencing was worse than any other episode in the past. What little time I could muster to stay awake was used to delete files on my computer and organize my passwords for my survivors. The same routine (by now it was routine) from the previous day continued into Thursday.
me a lab form to get the vials for samples. On the form she wrote the word 
“Which do you want first, the good news, or the bad news.” she joked. “I guess the bad news,” I replied. “Well, you have two things, Giardia and 
keep in mind the possibility of illness. I probably won’t go again, but if we are fortunate enough to get free tickets, I’m going shopping for a new outfit. Since this fair cost me $42.48 net (plus time off from work), I’ll have to factor in the cost of the new clothes for the next event.
It was 1966. I was 16 at the time and a big fan of the emerging fast-food craze. McDonald’s was taking off, and we had a place named 
Burger Shack on Marlboro Pike, near the Hillside Drive-in Theater, selling yummy hamburgers for fifteen cents a pop. I loved Fridays because my mother often brought home Burger Shack dinner, which included hamburgers, fries, and shakes. So, I thought the best way to get a constant supply of burgers was to go to work for the new place called Red Barn that had recently opened in 
I always thought the hats were funny. Now, I’m not so sure. The miniature cars go well with the toppers. You have to be special to look silly.
Chicken, but the secrecy of the Society probably contributed to the Colonel keeping his Original Recipe® of 11 secret herbs and spices under wraps. To this day, we still don’t know how the bird is dressed. Phrases like “Level with him,” “Be square,” and “The Third Degree” all originated with Freemasons. They are very important in our history, whether or not we are aware.
conventions and all sorts of activities that keep the mind abuzz. And don’t forget . . . the little cars. You never hear of them causing any problems in the hotels or towns where they are holding conventions (news of Shriners throwing televisions out of hotel windows is minimal). They seem to be well behaved, upstanding citizens.
Because of my renewed interest in my grandfather, I recently inquired about joining the Shriners, not understanding the necessary steps. At my age, I will be dead before qualifying. They were kind in not laughing at my naivete and directed me to the Freemasons. Then I found out you don’t just join. You have to be recommended. Since, the only person I know who was a Freemason/Shriner died in 1982, it seems a difficult task. My interest will probably dwindle soon, but if there is a Freemason out there who is interested in recruiting a new member with a connected ancestor, give me a call. Better yet, send an email to 
family, particularly on Thanksgiving and Christmas, he always brought me liverwurst (I was the only one in my family who liked it) and 
butter (Mom preferred margarine). And, my mother always cooked a pot of 
which was his favorite. He loved me, and I loved him. Now that I know Henry even better, I love him more.
“Marco! Polo!” is to swimming pools what “Wait a minute . . “ is to ice cream trucks. They are universally interpreted to mean whatever they mean, and all children say them the same way (you’re probably
hearing them in your head right now).
Cream Man is here!! Hurry!!!” I like to remember chasing down the 
Washington, DC, and not even sniffing the possibility of a sale or income, the time seemed right for a different venture. My parents’ apartment was closing-in on us, so I began a relationship with the Washington Post classifieds.
being plugged-in overnight. And I got out of the truck from the driver’s side, since it was a two-door cab. But the chimes worked great. Ringing those bells while driving around the neighborhoods gave me the chance to be an inspiration to the children and a screen-scratching irritant to the parents. I yanked on the chain as rhythmically as possible. The louder and sing-song jingly I could make it, the more ice cream that was sold. I got “Jiggy wid it,” and pulled in a pretty decent wage.
anxiously awaiting the arrival of the Lord of Frozen Treats. It is one job where being late means lower income, because if 
4:30, so by the time 7:30 came around, they were ready for pints, quarts and half-gallons; all packed away at the back of the freezer to be sure there was a ready supply. Young GIs, with the munchies, usually emptied the truck, which made for a good drive back to the plant, carrying lots of cash and having plenty of room for tomorrow’s wares.
while going to school. The parent company, 
normal business, and all schools remain open. Yet, it’s considered to be a holiday. That’s what you think, right? It has that celebratory feel. Maybe we should just label it a Cause for Celebration, since it doesn’t get the official holiday treatment. I’m not even sure I should capitalize Halloween.
encounter, or the house they stroll past nervously. The candy I give is the good stuff, but they have to work for it. If it’s a really good night of fright, there was not a lot left over for the office.
broomstick on a rope in front of the kids as they ascended the steps. They gave the best treats, so all the kids wanted to make the stop. That particular year my father was a driver for 
blubbering, chimes, bells, howls, cackles and other haunting tracks blast out of the upstairs windows, probably making a few neighbors hate 2034.
the fear my face-cover extracted. During that day in the office where I worked at the time, the mask was worn for our Halloween celebration. I popped up from behind a cubicle in front of one of my bosses and got him good. The fright on his face was priceless. And, he was a Republican. If he were a Democrat, he probably would have made a quick trip to the bathroom.
while shrieking and thrusting the blade downward. It never failed to do the trick. The only time I regretted the prank was when a father, holding his infant, screamed like a girl, then laughed. The baby did not think it was funny and cried pitifully. Causing seven-year-olds to crap their pants was good. Scarring a child for life is not.
about where she grew up. She was referring to my neighborhood. We started discussing Halloween and she mentioned the fear of walking up the driveway of the house with the loud eerie music, and the man who always dressed up, and usually jumped out from behind something. I probed a bit more, and guess who? We had a big laugh. Endorsement by unsolicited testimonial.
Our wedding took place on July 7th, 1984, in the basement of 
daughter, Pamela, was a Flower Girl. It seemed an exciting time for them, too. We went through the wedding procedures, eventually sitting down for our meal. The waitress took my order, with an emphasis on Spaghetti Aglio e Olio. “Bring it to me now, Fair Maiden,” I thought. “I am the Groom and shall have whatever desired.” I felt like Henry VIII. Shortly thereafter the meal arrived, followed by a distressed son with a belly ache. “Dad, I feel sick,” he moaned. “My stomach hurts.” So, we walked outside to kill the gas pains, caused by the indulgence of unlimited soda on an empty stomach.
ordered vittles. The untouched plate must not have alerted the server. I could have made a big deal out of it and screamed at her, but the loss of my pasta was so devastating, it didn’t occur to me to complain. The funk of not having my favorite dish cleared my mind of any other thoughts. “Olio? Olio, where are you?”
On my way to the office most mornings, I stop at the 7-11 in 
Lately I have been bothered by nausea. It comes and goes. Sometimes it is enough of a problem to cause me to rest more than preferred. The other day, on my way to the office I decided to stop at the 7-11 for a cup of coffee. After parking my car, I got out and waved at the two guys as they greeted me. Then I leaned over into the grassy knoll and heaved. I’m talking Blanch! It came on so quickly I didn’t know what the hell to think. But the 7-11 Greeters were concerned. “Are you OK? Is everything all right?” Man, this was embarrassing. I was blowing my breakfast-less entrails in front of someone who knows me and is not family.
Pardon me,” I droned on with my drink-mixing maneuvers, meandering my way around multiple hands reaching for the sweeteners. While stirring my container of caffeine, I eyed the donuts nearby. They looked good, but evil. My better judgement 
forced me to pass.
In 1997, I discovered the Internet. Like most people at the time AOL was my Service Provider. I liked them. It was easy to navigate through their landscape. Kind of like Internet for Dummies. When I first signed up, they gave me the screen name Philro78@aol.com. Kind of boring, right? After becoming aware of the flexibility of screen name anointment, I began to have fun.
looking for a few items. My favorite station is the Deli with all the different pods of strange foods I know nothing about. Always curious and fairly willing to try practically anything, I asked the nice lady standing behind the counter which of the choices contained squid. She pointed to the extremely large bowls sitting on the table behind me, with cellophane somewhat covering them, flies hovering close by, and sticky tongs to be used for scooping. “The red one,” she uttered. Being polite, I noddingly pretended to understand and turned to see six giant bowls, 
three of which were “red ones.” My memory of squid is based on a knowledge of calamari, smoked, soup, dried, shredded, and sushi. I do not recall the “red one.”
Bridgette and Doyle Popeye will be celebrated their 94th wedding anniversary on November 28, 2022. Bridgette Squeaky Moonloop was born in Corncob, LA on February 29, 1908. Her husband, Doyle Isakiah Popeye was born in Vegetable Leaf, MO on February 29, 1904. They met at the National Society of Leap Year Babies celebration on February 29, 1928, and just nine months later they were man and wife.
On January 17, 1929, their son, Aristotle Ezra Popeye, who became a comedic star using the name Popeye The Sailor Man, was born.
with enthusiasm, daring young Popeye to chase her. Aristotle, being not a particularly bright child, decided to chew on a leaf as well. His forearms grew immense, and he developed a hankering to smoke a corncob pipe. His increased speed allowed him to catch Phoebe and they snuggled for hours. Aristotle Ezra Popeye knew he had happened upon a miracle weed (not that kind of weed).
Doyle, Jr. could not stomach spinach. His parents tried hiding it among other foods, like spinach dip, spinach ravioli, spinach juice (they called it lime), and other dishes. But he was not fooled. As a result, Doyle, Jr. refused to eat any green leafy vegetables, and it was he who coined the term vile weed to emphasize his hatred of spinach. Eventually, the term was used by Newman in a Seinfeld episode in reference to broccoli.
The Popeye name has been branded throughout the world in products such as Popeye’s Chicken and Popeye Spinach. There is even a club in Chester, Illinois devoted to the 
Boomer Twilight 