Entomologists and Fried Shrimp

2008 – Palm Springs

I’m asking my wife to buy a gun.  She refuses.  She won't leave me even though I’ve repeatedly asked her to go away.  I’m not trying to be mean, I just want to die as quickly and peacefully as possible.  Every time I start to see the white light and hear dead relatives beckoning me home, she asks, “Brad… are you OK?”  Coming back from the brink, I shake my head and say, “Urrggghhh.” 

I’m hanging on the porch rail outside of the Mikado Japanese Steakhouse.  I’m trying to look inconspicuous as the other diners pass by.  I’m showing an intense interest in the wood rail.  I look like an Entomologist trying to discover a new species of termite.  I’m cold and sweaty and my stomach is trying to crawl out of my abdomen.  I’d go to an emergency room, but that would require me to move my body.  I’d rather die. 

Just an hour before, I was living it up.  The Teppanyaki chef was flinging fried shrimp across the room and I was catching it in my mouth.  I’d move farther and farther away and still catch it.  I don’t mess around when food is flung in my direction.  It was a good meal.  By the end of it, I knew it would be my last moments alive.

I've been allergic to weird stuff in my life: things like latex paint, broccoli, almonds, and… mushrooms.  My death was blamed on the three hundred pounds of mushrooms I ate that night.

I knew I was allergic to mushrooms, but these were tiny mushrooms, very tiny mushrooms.  Eating 1000 of these mushrooms would be equal to one regular store-bought mushroom.  I only ate 800.  Now I realize that it was a plot by the chef to kill me.  I missed one of the flung fried shrimp and it ended up on the floor.  I wasted food.  He was getting his revenge.

A few months ago I ate some soup.  After several bites (or swallows…) I realized it had mushrooms in it.  I stopped eating and called the local funeral home.  After I’d planned my funeral, I realized that I was still alive.  No pain, no hanging on the rails, no begging my wife to leave me alone.  A month or so ago, I ate some almonds.  I’d already performed a tracheotomy on myself so I could breathe when my throat swelled shut.  A while later I called for my wife, “Hey Honey!  Come in here and sew up this hole in my throat.  It turns out I don’t need it!”

I've been eating mushrooms and almonds since without any problems.  I’m going to drink some latex paint later just to check.  I still haven’t eaten broccoli.  I think I’ll keep claiming that allergy.  Why would I want to eat broccoli anyway? 

The allergies disappeared after my surgery.  I asked my surgeon if that was common.  He looked at me like I was violating the 1-year-with-no-alcohol rule.  I guess it isn’t common.  Common or not, I think it is pretty cool.

The weight loss is turning out to be a small part of the benefit of this surgery.  My Diabetes is gone, my sleep apnea is gone, my allergies are gone, and my hair is gone (not the result of surgery, but I thought I’d mention it).  I feel younger than I did 10 years ago.  I can ride a bike again without my dangling gut causing back spasms, although I’ll probably get hit by a car on my first bike ride outside my neighborhood.  

It’s good.  It’s all good.

Bug Splats and Cat Treats

I think the honeymoon is over.  For six wonderful months, I did not crave food.  I guess I still don’t crave food, but put a chocolate cake, zinger, chip, candy bar, milk, coated eyeball in front of me and I want to eat it.  Sorry Nancy, it’s not easy to “just say no.”  The world revolves around chocolate.  I’m going to poke my eyes out.  

I’ve been stuck in the mud for a while.  The weight used to pour off of me.  I’d stand on the scale and watch the numbers turn backward; the excess weight pouring onto the floor and down the drain. Then, I hit 235 pounds.  Hit it with a nice juicy splat like a bug hitting a windshield.  Guts all over the scale.  It took me forever (eternity + one day) to get from 235 to 230.  Now I’m stuck at 230.  The chocolate doesn’t help.  Neither does the Ambien-fueled raids on the pantry at 2 AM. 

Some days I’m at 228.  I think I even tricked the scale into saying 225 one morning.  But, like a homing pigeon, my body always comes back to 230.

Amazingly, I can eat less than one pound of food and gain three pounds overnight.  I think it’s our cats’ fault.  They’re stuffing my mouth with cat treats and saying, “chew on these big-boy and tell me if they taste like treats!!”  We have picky cats.

My body has chosen to lose weight everywhere that I don’t want it to.  It thinks it’s hilarious.  Its constant laughing keeps me awake.  I’ve lost 80 pounds everywhere but my belly.  I’ve lost in my arms and legs and my umm… bottom.  My legs are skinny enough that I can cross them in an effeminate way.  I don’t mean to.  I’m scared about it.  I cross my legs.  Twenty minutes later my legs are crossed like I’m trying to modestly wear a short skirt.  I’ll put them into a manly leg cross.  Twenty minutes later: mini-skirt.  It’s not a good look for a guy.  I don’t know.  Maybe it would look better without the high heels.

Is the great fat shedding of 2011-2012 ended?  I hope not.

Velcro Ribs and Draino

I’m at Beef O’Grady’s.  It’s next to the hotel.  I’m in the mood for ribs.  I really don’t want to drink Draino.

I still can’t eat red meat.  I chew and chew and chew and chew and chew… and chew.  It still has a hard time going down.  I feel like I’m ramming wadding down a musket.  It goes in there pretty far, and then it stops.  I don’t feel like I’m choking.  I can breathe.  When it happens I wish I couldn't.

I was in Boise a few weeks ago.  I ordered a full rack of ribs.  I knew I could only eat one or two ribs.  I wanted to take the rest back to the hotel so I could eat ribs for the rest of my stay.  The ribs arrive.  I start eating one rib.  They’re tender.  I’m chewing like a professional.  I’m chewing to win the championship. 

I finish one-half of one rib.  It tastes good.  It is sitting compactly between my wind pipe and my stomach.  It hurts.  I’m feigning interest in the football game on the big screen.  Ten minutes, twenty minutes, still stuck.  The waitress sees only a half eaten rib.  She stops by, “Is everything OK?”  Me, “I’m fine, I’m just a slow eater.”  I’m a liar too.  I decide that water is good.  I drink a couple of sips.  I sprint to the men’s room!  Where is the !@#$% men’s room?!?!?!  I’m in the stall.  The water is coming back up.  Efficient recycling.  The food is still stuck.  My constant retching reassures the other customers, “Get the ribs… retttccchhhhh… they’re really good retttccchhhhh…”

I give up.  I stumble back to my table.  A half eaten rib and a greenish man bring the waitress over.  Me, “The ribs are great. Can I get a to-go box?” They barely fit in the carton.  I pay and stagger back to my hotel.  Two hours later I drink a quart of Draino.  I don’t mind the lye burns.  I feel better.

I went to bed that night with ribs stuck next to my ribs.  I guess they finally made their way through.  I could eat the next morning.  I ate Pero and Vitamin Water.  I don’t have to chew them as much.

I’ve learned how to be a good vomiter.  I can usually get things cleaned out really quick.  The ribs were tender and tasty and made of Velcro.  Maybe my body wanted me to enjoy the ribs all evening by bringing up small pieces every few minutes.