For the most part, I try to eat healthy. Day to day, I either eat oatmeal or Life cereal or Grape Nuts for breakfast. I know. I know. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: “Why bother living, you freak?” And believe you me, I agree with you. That’s why come Saturdays, I’m like a two bit hooker getting her fix on. ‘Cause, that’s when I break out the Cap’n. No, not Cap’n Morgan. Please. I’m a loser. Only rock stars have Cap’n Morgan for breakfast. And I don’t have the moxie to be either.
No, I’m talking Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch. For the love of the Christ, that shit’s the best! I can literally eat 3 bowls of it at one sitting. And in all honesty, I don’t even know what stops me from eating the whole flippin’ box. I guess it’s whatever remains of my humanity that stops me. You know…I suppose there’s a tiny part of my consciousness that reminds me that I’m not just some pleasure driven omnivore scarfing down the day’s kill. I guess you could call it my conscience.
Whatever. All’s I know, is that it stops me, every single time. And it usually goes down like this:
Last Saturday, I sat at the kitchen table, spooning out the last remnants of my third bowl of the Crunch. I thought to myself (Who would I think to? You? Duh.), “God damn, I love this shit. You know what? I’m having another bowl. Actually, Today’s the day! I’m gonna finish this fucking box.”
And as I was about to pour my fourth bowl, that stupid little voice spoke up, “You’re not possibly thinking you’re gonna eat ANOTHER bowl are you?”
I shot the air a sarcastic look. “Well, yea.” I said aloud, to no one in particular.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” The voice questioned.
“If I did, then I wouldn’t be getting ready to pour myself another bowl, now would I?” Zing! Take that! Stupid conscience.
“Well, you’d be better served putting the box down and stepping away from the bowl.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
I’ll tell you what. If I ever figure out a way to get my hands on my conscience, it’s as good as dead!
“Those straining pants of yours aren’t kidding, that’s for sure.” My very own Jiminy Cricket quipped.
Stupid conscience, always hitting above the belt. I slammed the box down on the table in disgust. “Alright!” I said, sulking like a petulant child.
“Hey. I don’t care what you do.” My conscience replied. “Just don’t come complaining to me when you’ve got to buy size 60 pants.”
“But I only wear 33s.”
“Today…” My cricket added.
“Go to hell.” I replied to the air, tossing my milk filled bowl into the sink.
“You’ll thank me for it.” The voice said
“Yea, yea, yea. Whatever.” I said, storming out of the kitchen in a bit of a tif.