The low-carbohydrate way of eating has been an absolute boon to me, if not to trucks carrying delicious pre-wrapped snack cakes.
No other way of eating has kept me from chasing Little Hostess trucks down the street while trying to gnaw the tires. You know, it’s socially awkward when they driver is trying to make out why the truck makes the whump-whump-whump sound as he’s travelling down the road.
Then, when he finally pries my canines out of his steel-belted radials (and says, “Wow, have you had dental work? Such great choppers”) and continues on his way, he waves as I’m then hugging the big fiberglass donut at the corner Drippin’ Donuts.
What can I say? I’m a sucker for big sprinkles.
Through a change in eating from a high-carbohydrate diet to one with fewer carbs, I have removed virtually any and all cues which tell me to lick Pizza Hut ads (my monitor tasted like dust), try to adopt Betty Crocker, fondle Dolly Madison or eat the plastic Barbie cake (it looked so pink).
I think once I accidentally ingested one of the Olson twins. I still have a platform shoe wedged in my esophagus. Such tiny feet.
I am reformed! Made new! No longer one of the hungry aggressors towards hugging the golden arches, I have entered the rehab clinic of healthful eating.
That Oscar Meyer Weinermobile I chased the other day and accosted with saurkraut before the police showed up and slapped me with a restraining order for tasting its sweet, delicious casing? Totally legal.
Thank you, Dr Atkins.