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
I have an obsession with 
Town Hall has been open since 1960. That’s quite an accomplishment for a drinking spot. Those that come and go are usually “theme” bars catering to whatever fad or style is temporarily occupying the minds of its semi-loyal patrons. Dance clubs seem to last the least amount of time, usually laid waste by fights, drug busts, marriage, and the quick aging and waning interest of its clients. But Town Hall has lasted through student migrations, sporting event-driven traffic, all the 
that I only had the nerve to eat once, and an unpretentious atmosphere. It worked.
ny other 
entourage decide to shove off for haute cuisine, laced with over-priced, but oh-so-pretty beverages. Once the children are gone, the Slim Jims and suds taste better.
I was in the neighborhood on business, but beer, pool and peanuts are not on the agenda. When home, I play pinball on my computer, shaking the machine with keystrokes. Diet soda in a can or plastic bottle is my “draft.”
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.
George Bush was recently involved in a game of “Duck, Duck, Goose” during a news conference held in Iraq. One of the members of the Iraqi media (a minivan, with three reporters and two digital cameras) took off his shoes (size 10) and hurled them at the President in an effort to insult him. I am not up on 
were only female and so many times when I was dying fabric pumps in the back room or bringing them to the women, I saw the soles. Not once did I shake or feel insulted. Maybe it was because they were new and had not yet traveled the road of dirty sidewalks or stepped in gum or anything that might make them filthy. My guess is the soiling of the soles of worn shoes is what adds to the insult of showing them to someone. It seems the indignity can only come from a man, since the theory appears to have originated among the not-so-tolerant-of-females men of 
the Middle East. That’s probably why I never shivered at Bakers. When Dwight Eisenhower was President, I wonder if Buster Browns were used for the gesture, or would it have been Kinney’s or 
some like a man. Typically, men wear pants and have no need to hide their privates. The feminish crosser is most likely just being polite, attempting to avoid showing the sole to innocent observers. It seems to me displaying the bottom of 
dirty bare feet would be more of a disgusting gesture, but like I said earlier, I’m not a student of the theory. Restaurants do not ban soiled shoe soles, only bare feet. So, the owners of eating establishments must not understand the Shoe Insult Theory, either.
baking process to knead the dough, or is there a subtle insult being extended by the pie? Only the Amish know for sure (but they’re not reading this).
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.
I’m not a particularly devout person. I do believe there is a 
For the sake of this post, let’s assume everyone reading has a belief in a supreme being of your choosing, and that deity determines how you will spend the afterlife. The fantasy of St. Peter at the Pearly Gates will be used as the scenario for entry into the everlasting existence.
to check against the guest list and his/her question is, “Tell me why you deserve an audience with God?” How would you answer? What qualifies us to be considered pure? Wars are fought in the name of promoting religion, which seems to be hypocritical. I would think that someone leading a good pious life is honest, peaceful, caring, sharing, etc. Not destroying people so they can convince them to go in the right direction. Once “sinners” have been eliminated, how can they learn? They’re dead.
many people were killed because they did not believe a particular teaching? It’s not just war (
Your answer to St. Peter the Bouncer could be, “I’ve been good.” That might allow you to cross the rope. Then you meet God, and he/she looks you in the eye and asks, “What is good?” You stumble for an answer and mutter something like, “I’ve done unto others as I would have them do unto me.”
have never met a 
having his brother killed, but it seems to me confessing did not make the act a “good” thing. I just don’t think professional Hit Men get through the gates just because they “got it out of their system” by telling the Priest. Maybe it is OK if it’s just one or two killings, as long as there is a long period of time between the deaths and the killer’s demise, but I can’t be sure because I’m not up on the rules. My guess is God would be somewhat less forgiving for such a blatant violation of one of the Commandments.
thing seems reasonable to me. I support the 
OK, I have a bone to pick with a current trend in the English language. When did “That being said,” “With that said,” “Having said that,” “That said,” “With that being said,” and so on become so common? I don’t remember them being used several years ago. Now everyone is saying them, writing them, belching them, rapping them, and pissing me off by using them. Maybe they’re proper, but I don’t care. They don’t really mean anything. It’s kind of like saying, “Hey moron, did you get that? I said it, and I’ll tell you I said it just in case you don’t know I said it. So, listen up and let me tell you I said it because I like to repeat myself.” 
Fortunately he’s 
don’t care about the NBA and can avoid his nonsense. Every time I watched a FOX NFL game, featuring 
Perhaps it is correct English; I’m really not sure. What bothers me is how they have become so vogue. They are certainly overused by the media. Enough that it really gets on my nerves. The use of “For sure” was the same way a couple of decades ago. Eventually it went away. I’m concerned “With that being said” is so ingrained it may take a century or two to become archaic.
I forgive you, because society has pummeled you so much “With that being said,” you probably don’t even realize you’re a phrase junkie. Maybe there is something in our drinking water forcing our lemming behavior. 
I like the evolution of language. The writings of 
understood by the lowliest of peasants as well as the upper crust of society. The Intelligentsia of today cannot come to terms with what exactly was meant back then. When was the last time you watched a Shakespeare movie or play and did not scratch your head just a few times during the performance?
moan and groan about it. I just hope it goes away before I die. It will probably take too long, so my gravestone will convey my displeasure.
I’m probably going to Hell, be struck by lightning, or meet a horrible end for this post, but the subject is too freakish for me to avoid. I just can’t help myself.
took my kids when they were young, but they spent the whole show counting the number of times the elephants pooped. We didn’t have a chance to see Freaks.
strange things. We pretend not to notice, but the corner of our eye gets stretched as far as possible and at any opportunity, we peek. When was the last time you were stuck in traffic, and the only reason for the delay was rubbernecking? I know you looked. Don’t be ashamed. It’s acceptable to gaze. That’s how Barnum grew rich. He was the first Millionaire Showman. And if it makes you feel any better, the people who were displaying their oddities and/or deformities referred to themselves as “Freaks.” So, you’re off the hook for the curiosity or use of the word.
the time that 
feet resemble tree branches, and he has a morbid fear of termites, beavers, woodpeckers and squirrels. The sad thing is his wife left him and he was fired from his job. I assume he was sacked because he couldn’t use his hands or feet and it was impossible to perform any normal task (I suppose they don’t have ADA protection in Indonesia). His wife was probably worried about splinters. Yet, he
likes to smoke cigarettes. If I were him, no open flames would get anywhere near me.
OK with it. It’s the only way he can make a living. The Welfare System in Indonesia is not quite as generous as here, so Dede has to work somehow to feed himself and his children, and the circus is the only willing employer. If Barnum was alive today, Dede would be his featured act and he would probably have 
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.
Boomer Twilight 