Celebrity Health Tips: Debunk'd!

When it comes to health and nutrition, I'm admittedly not an expert.  My dietary habits are deplorable, my exercise routine consists primarily of walking to the refrigerator, and I visit the doctor about as often as Mel Gibson visits the Museum of Tolerance.  I freely admit this, so if ever you see a book entitled, "Knucklehead's Guide to a Healthier Lifestyle", you should take it with a grain of salt.  Or an In-N-Out Double-Double.  But please buy the book, because I'll need the money to finance my triple-bypass.

It seems obvious, but dietary suggestions, health advice, and other matters of science are best left to the professionals.  Not everyone agrees with this, however, as we're constantly being bombarded by celebrity-endorsed health tips that make absolutely no sense at all.  For example, supermodel Naomi Campbell, actor Ashton Kutcher, and his mom Demi Moore follow a diet that includes nothing but maple syrup, lemon, and pepper, for periods up to two weeks.  Can you imagine?

"What's for breakfast, Mom?" Ashton asks Demi.

"Same as yesterday, Ashy dear.  A bowl of maple syrup."

"Oh, good!  And did you remember to pack my lunch?"

"I did indeed.  It's a nice, juicy lemon and freshly ground pepper."

Don't get me wrong, I've had lemon and pepper together too.  But it was slathered on a grilled piece of chicken.

Naomi Campbell told Oprah (of all people) that she follows this diet because "it's good to clean out your body once in a while."

With maple syrup?  Sorry, I don't get it.

Naomi, Ashton, and Demi, however, are nutritional visionaries compared to pop star Sarah Harding.  Sarah told Now magazine that she crumbles charcoal -- that's right, Kingsford briquettes -- over her food.   According to the article, she does this because, quote, charcoal doesn't taste of anything and apparently absorbs all the -- and here she uses the technical medical term -- "bad damaging stuff in the body." 

The Sense About Science group asked chemical scientist Dr. John Elmsley to comment on this idea.  When he finally stopped laughing, Dr. Elmsley said that while charcoal is known to absorb toxic molecules when used in gas masks and sewage treatment -- notice he made no mention of the human digestive system -- it's unnecessary when it comes to diet.  It seems as though the body is already capable of managing the "bad damaging stuff."

Which brings us to British cage fighter Alex Reid.

Remember the scene in the movie "Rocky" where Stallone wakes up at the crack of dawn and chugs a glassful of raw eggs?  Disgusting, right?  Well, Alex Reid's training regimen takes this concept to entirely new level.  To prepare for a big fight -- I swear I'm not making this up -- he "reabsorbs" his sperm.

"I believe that semen has a lot of nutrition," Reid says.  "A tablespoon of semen has your equivalent of steak, eggs, lemons, and oranges.  I am reabsorbing it into my body and it makes me go raaaaah."

So let me see if I understand this.  Alex Reid is training for a fight, and he has two choices for dinner.  On the one hand, he has a large steak, a cheese omelette, orange slices and a glass of lemonade.  On the other hand, he has a shot glass of his homemade man chowder.  He's saying this is an equal choice?  Call me crazy, but why not just eat the steak and eggs?

But hey, maybe that's why I'm not a cage fighter.

Please tell me Alex Reid didn't lose to THIS Tom Watson.

You'd think that with such an unorthodox training diet, Reid must be seeing some outstanding results in the cage, right?  I mean, why "reabsorb" your jizz if it's not actually helping?  But get this.  Alex Reid hasn't won a bout since 2005.  He's had seven fights since then, and he's lost every single one of them.  His lifetime record is eight wins, nine losses, and one draw.  In September, 2010, he lost to a guy named Tom Watson who I'm hoping to God isn't the same Tom Watson who won the 1975 Byron Nelson Golf Classic.

I wonder if his nickname is "The Spermanator".

In addition to being thoroughly grossed-out, scientist John Aplin said sperm can't be reabsorbed.  The little buggers die after a few days, and the nutritional content of the ejaculate is really rather small.  As though that's the only drawback.

You know, now that I think about it, "Knucklehead's Guide to a Healthier Lifestyle" isn't such a bad idea.  Compared to these other diets, a Double-Double couldn't possibly do any harm.

Of course, you'll want to sprinkle some charcoal on it first.

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Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Flabbiness

When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for people to discard the hope of successfully dieting and exercising, and to consume the culinary blessings of the earth, the delicious yet fattening array of burgers and fried chicken which the laws of Ronald McDonald and Colonel Sanders entitle us, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that we should declare the causes which impel us to the separation. 

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all chubby men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of flabbiness.

The other night while paying the monthly bills[1] I noticed that I've been throwing away $85 a month on a "fat tax," or as it's more commonly known, a "gym membership."  When we moved into our new home last April, I signed the family up for membership in the local country club, including use of the pool, gym, dining hall, and an assortment of other amenities, all for the very reasonable price of the aforementioned eighty-five bucks.  It seemed like quite a bargain at the time, and it would've been, if not for one minor detail.  I never go.

I shouldn't say "never."  In truth, I've been to the gym exactly three times, and that includes stopping by on my way home from work to get my picture taken for the membership card.  But I can't bring myself to just quit because that would be like, well, quitting.  I cling desperately to my gym membership as a way to convince myself there's still hope, the same way a jilted husband refuses to take off his wedding ring even though his slutty ex-wife dumped him years ago and is currently humping her way through the entire starting lineup of the San Diego Chargers[2].  Time to let go, man, it's over.

My self-delusion can be fairly persuasive, but let's face it, I'm not fooling anybody, least of all myself.  Even if I could work up the motivation to hit the gym two or three times a week, there would still be the other four or five days to contend with.  And, if history tells us anything, those remaining days would be festooned with In-N-Out burgers, stuffed-crust pizza, KFC and Subway (Jared can go screw himself, there's nothing healthy about the foot-long Italian BMT with the works).  There's nothing more frustrating than busting your butt in the gym for two days and then throwing it all away on a Ben and Jerry's binge.  It makes you wonder, "why the hell did I waste all that time working out?"

So here's how I justify all this, in case you were wondering.  I'm forty-five years old, and in a committed, happy relationship, so I don't have to worry about impressing chicks with my chiseled physique.  Which works out just fine because my physique isn't chiseled at all.  It's molded out of Play-doh.  Also, while I'm admittedly overweight, you wouldn't necessarily look at me and think, "damn, look at that fat guy."  "Look at the bald guy," sure.  "Look at that goofy dude over there," absolutely.    But at this point, I don't believe "fat" is my primary defining characteristic.  So I've got some wiggle room here.

Which is why I've decided to stop beating myself up over not exercising as much as I should (how's that for understatement?), and sticking to a diet plan that could best be described as "tasty, enjoyable, and won't kill me for at least fifteen more years."  I mean, seriously, when you enjoy burgers as much as I do, you're not going to get over the bar unless you set it pretty darn low.

But I haven't completely given up just yet.  I'll continue to pay the "fat tax" as long as I have to, and maybe someday I'll find the motivation to start working out and eating right.

Then again, you know how many Double-Doubles you can get for $85 a month?


[1] I mean this literally, it's not a euphemism for "it's my significant other's time of the month."

[2] Offense, defense AND special teams.  Even the kicker, a five foot seven Scandinavian guy whose last name contains no vowels.


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Will Power Didn't Stand a Chance

It's summertime once again, and as usual I'm trying to drop a few pounds so I look decent at the beach.  Not that I ever go to the beach, but I think you understand what I'm trying to say.  To be clear about this, and admittedly there may be an element of denial in play here, I do not consider myself to be a "fat person."  As I've said before, I am still comfortably on the "bald guy" side of the "fat guy/bald guy scale."  For those of you unfamiliar with this system, here's how it works.  If I were sitting at Starbucks drinking my Tazo Chai Creme Frapuccino and you happened to glance my way, your initial thought would be, "Hey, look at that bald guy over there."   Therefore, I am a bald guy who could stand to lose a few pounds.  If your first thought was, "Hey, check out that fat tub of goo," well, that's another story entirely.

Anyway, in my ongoing effort to remain on the "bald guy" side of the equation, I have started yet another diet.  My fiance Theresa has decided to join me in this endeavor.  So the other morning, she asked me the simple question, "What are you having for lunch?"

"I dunno, probably yogurt and maybe some tuna," I said.

"Oh."

"What do you mean, 'oh'?"

"Well, we need to go to the grocery store to pick up dog food so I thought maybe we could stop somewhere for lunch."

"Okay," I said.  "How about Subway?"  A happy medium, I thought.  Filling, tasty, somewhat within the limits of my diet.

"Sure, I guess."

So we went to the market and bought the dog food.  On the way back to the car, Theresa noticed a Baskin Robbins in the same shopping center.

"Hey, I've been wanting to try out that Baseball Nut Sundae," she said.

Let me explain something real quick.  Dieting is not all that difficult for me.  I can resist temptation.  However, when Major Temptation joins forces with Master Sergeant Theresa, well, that's more than I can handle.  It's impossible to fight the Battle of the Bulge on two fronts.

"Fine," I said.  "Let's go get some ice cream.  But if that Baseball Nut Sundae comes in a protective cup, I'm outta there."

"You sure you don't mind putting off the diet another day?" she asked.  After all that, it's now my decision.

"Yeah, why the hell not?"

So we had the sundaes.  Still, if we stayed on our diet the rest of the day and did an extra session at the gym, it'd probably be fine.  We got in the car headed over to Subway.

"Oooh, look," said Theresa.  "Let's go to Sonic Burgers!"

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, doesn't that sound great?"

Anything you say, Sergeant.  Private Spineless reporting for duty.

I pulled into the Sonic drive-thru and ordered our meals.  She got the burger and Tater Tots, I got the double cheeseburger and Tater Tots.  Jenny Craig, kiss my fat ass.

Speaking of Jenny Craig, I forgot to mention that just last week Theresa spent a not insignificant amount of money on Jenny Craig food.  Packages of granola bars, low-calorie meals, and healthy desserts gathered dust in our pantry while Theresa and I stuffed our faces with burgers and ice cream.  But I digress.

As we were in the drive-thru waiting to pay, Theresa said to me, "Hey, you've got a weird pocket of fat right there."

Now, I was looking out the window so I didn't know what specific "pocket of fat" she was looking at.  Sadly, there were a couple different possibilities.  Still, after basically brow-beating me into the ice cream and burgers, I was in no mood to hear about my excess blubber.

"You didn't just say that," I replied.

"Maybe I didn't say it exactly the right way."

"Oh, no, it's fine.  How could anyone possibly misconstrue the phrase 'weird-looking pocket of fat'?  And what pocket of fat, if I may ask, are you referring to?"

"Right there, on your hand.  Look."

Apparently, she thought that the fleshy part of my hand between my thumb and index finger could stand to drop a couple pounds.  I didn't react well.

"Let me get this straight," I said, voice rising slightly.  "I wanted to have yogurt for lunch.  Then I compromised and agreed we'd go to Subway.  THEN you talked me into ice cream and THEN you wanted to come here to Sonic.  And now you have the nerve to say my fucking hands are too fat!?  Well, excuse me, maybe I can watch infomercials tonight and see if Suzanne Somers is selling the Thumb-Master or something so I can slim them down a bit!"  I snatched my change from the hand of a completely innocent and unsuspecting cashier.  Great, now I'm a fat asshole.

Theresa was somewhat taken aback by my outrage.  "Maybe it's just muscle.  Yes, I'm sure that's what it is, muscle.  You're so strong."

"Yeah, shut up and finish your Tater Tots."



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