The Diet of Doom

Okay, I knew it was coming. The doctor's office calls and sez, "Your numbers on your blood tests are high." The culprits, cholesterol, blood sugar, and something about a nasty little liver enzymes. The little skinny twit (They only hire skinny twits at the doctor's office to call fat women so they can sound condescending.) sez I have to fast again. The apt's for 11:15 am, so she adds in a condescending manner, "Can you do that?" If I could reach through the phone and slap her little snide face I would have done it without hesitation. Alternate snide answer: "Well, gee, I don't know if I can go a whole 12 hours without food, I might just see a half-eaten Snickers bar on the receptionist's desk and flip out." But I didn't say that. I just muttered, "Yes, I can do that." But on the inside I was saying, "Yeah, you skinny, perky-titted, twinky. Go eat some M&M's."

Therefore, the much maligned apt is on Tuesday. I'm dreading it because because Doctors are diet Nazis who live to tell you that heart disease is going to get you like you were a skinny coed in a Friday the 13th movie. Bad heart disease. I have a mental vision of a gigantic blob pink fat with a machete in one blob like hand and a chainsaw in the other. Oh, well, then out pops a third hand with a drumstick from KFC. My kind of heart disease.

So I'm on yet another diet. The Oh-bummer-I'm-diabetic-would-you-look-at-that diet. If I had a dime for every diet I've been on, I'd probably eat them.