Cupcakes for Everyone!

The CDC almost admits that their war on “obesity” is based more on aesthetic preference and less on true health concerns!

• “Being overweight is nowhere near as big a killer as the government thought, ranking No. 7 instead of No. 2 among the nation’s leading preventable causes of death, according to a startling new calculation from the CDC.”
• “But like several recent smaller studies, it found that people who are modestly overweight actually have a lower risk of death than those of normal weight.”
• “CDC Director Dr. Julie Gerberding said because of the uncertainty in calculating the health effects of being overweight, the CDC is not going to use the brand-new figure of 25,814 in its public awareness campaigns and is not going to scale back its fight against obesity.”

Yes, we are going to continue to make fat teenagers (and others) feel like shit about themselves based on false numbers, because it never bothers teens to find out that people in positions of authority have lied to them!

Here, fat teenagers, are some true things you can count on: Masturbation is fun and, since it raises your heart rate, it’s like exercise, but it doesn’t suck! Sex is also fun and raises your heart rate and, if you can get five or six people involved, it’s almost like a team sport. Just be sure to use condoms and other forms of birth control. Also, don’t invite clean-cut kids who listen to death metal to your orgies; they will only break your heart.

My point, fat teenagers, is that, while PE is lame and sports suck, there are plenty of exciting things you can do with your body that raise your heart rate and keep your heart pumping hard for prolonged periods of time. Love yourself as much as you can and each other when you can and eat what you want.

I Miss the Dixie Chicks

I was thinking that it seems like I’m seeing more Dixie Chicks videos lately than I have in a while. I don’t hear them on the radio, but that seems to be because there’s no room for anything but “Drugs or Jesus.”

Still, I don’t guess country music has forgiven them yet, and, if I were them, I wouldn’t have forgiven country music any time soon.

I miss them, though.

Adventures with the Gout-Ridden Reverend

My poor dad has one leg that goes straight down from his calf into a huge, puffy foot that ends in five swollen toes that each seem to be straining away from each other. They look like they might pop right off.

This doesn’t slow him down, much, though. He’s just hobbling around and ordering anyone within hearing distance to meet his needs.

We drove down to Decatur, Alabama to give the smallest nephew to his dad, who he’s not seen in half a year. The smallest nephew was thrilled to see his dad. He locked himself in his dad’s car, he was so anxious to go home with him. He wants to see his brother and all his brother’s family.

Earlier, the littlest nephew went right up to the biggest, scariest biker you’ve ever seen and said, “Is that your motorcycle?” and this big grizzly guy broke into a big grin. “You wear a helmet?” the littlest nephew asked and the guy said yes and stood there and answered his questions, as best as he could make them out. Then, he got on his motorcycle, revved it loudly, and, when the littlest nephew cheered, he waved and drove off.

He’s a little heathen–not in the religious sense, but in the social sense–but he’s not my kid, so I find it impossible not to be charmed by behavior that probably would drive me insane if he were my kid. He’s ordering the waiter to bring us our bill. He’s yelling, “Bring it on” and running at you to play fight, in the middle of the store. He’s always talking to everyone.

And he says stuff that about breaks me in two, like “Are the cops coming? Are they going to shoot me? Are they going to take you to jail? Are they going to kill some babies?”

“No, no,” I say, “Cops don’t shoot little boys. They help little boys. If you have a problem, if something scary happens, you can count on the police to help you.”

The Reverend is playing cribbage with the Butcher and the Redheaded Kid, so the most common noise from my childhood–sixteen two, sixteen four, sixteen three and two are eight–is filling my house. It makes me happy.

My dad is asking me to tell you guys that the more money y’all give to Methodist ministers, the more your personal income will increase. But it must go to the ministers, not to the church, and it doesn’t matter if you’re Methodist.

I’m not sure this is the ideal way to raise money for his retirement, but it beats whatever the Methodist church has conned him into participating in.

Ha. Don’t tell him I said that.