Lo Cal Style

I was in the frozen food aisle staring at boxes. Sort of like a strip club with a broken furnace but way less likely to score a fifteen dollar blowjob. I brought change just in case. The whole 'portion control' theory started making a lot more sense since I gained twenty pounds of deviled egg weight, but like every other overpopulated American food niche, I had to sort my way through eight doors of low calorie choices.

Normally I disregard the PRODUCT HAS BEEN ENLARGED TO SHOW TEXTURE blurb on food packages. Common sense dictates that Cheerios don't come in doughnut size. The same common sense should've kicked in when I found a 200 calorie deluxe meat pizza. Only the least luminous of bright folks such as myself would be taken aback when a frozen pie the size of an air hockey puck slides out of the deceptively oversized box.

A likewisely obese couple happened along while I was window shopping, trying to waddle into a browsing position without violating my personal space. Like sharing a clown car with elephants. At least that's what the smell reminded me of. I didn't know whether to keep doing what I was doing or go get a garbage can and a push broom.

Once my mouth took over breathing and the dizziness quelled, I pressed on with urgency, grabbing meals that said CHEESY or MEAT, hoping for the best. The girl-looking one pivoted her body towards me because her neck was too jammed with gristle, sneering at my cart.

"I USED to eat those, but they have so much sodium in them, it's ridiculous. Like a third of your daily intake per meal."

Avoiding salt is no surprise coming from a person built like a slug. Fat people know diet tips like nerds know karate. You can wax a car or paint a fence all day long, but if you don't practice what you read, Johnny's still gonna hand you your ass when you try the crane kick.

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