Somebody said, "Have you been working out?" today.

Then he said I was "cut." Sounds so violent.

Meanwhile the clueless personal trainers running the weightloss contest are harrassing everyone about keeping a "food journal" and attending the group rock-climbing jaunt. This weekend they are taking us to the grocery store for a good old fashioned label-readin' sesh. They are going to lead my hapless competitors direct to the Kashi and rolled oats aisle. We are going to learn about Splenda and stevia!!! I hope there's time for an independent study jaunt. I'll come back with my cart full of pomegranite juice and get all kind of extra credit. Everyone will copy me, drink the stuff and gain five pounds. Meanwhile, I'll use it to brighten up my fishtank and dye my socks. My numbers will continue, inexorable, to fall.

I'm going on vacation again, but here's a diet tip: the reason we don't eat oysters in the summer is not that they will give us the listeria but that they spawn in the summer. Do you like to suck cold undiluted mushroom soup direct from the can? Then you will love oyster spawn.

Diet Challenge

I consumed a gigantic bottle of beer at a pub that prides itself on stocking beers of all nations and that has the kind of proud and knowledgeable waitstaff I've come to fear, all wielding the right kind of glass for each beer and serving them at the right temperature and bla bla bla. The menu had six or eight closely printed columns of beers to choose from and I went for a Bock beer from the oldest still-beer-brewing monastery in the world (extant since 1050 and just brewing their hearts out the whole time: I learned all this later, from the label the monks had chiseled into the pre-cambrian stone bottle). I also learned that Bock is the Manwich of beers. You see, it is specifically formulated to provide the calories to fuel all the pre-dawn ablutions, prayer and self-flagellation performed by monks during Lent. Monks who, in that holy season of deliberate deprivation, would otherwise starve to death since they consume nothing but Bock beer the whole time. So fantastic: I chose the sweetest, densest beer on the entire thousand-beer menu. It was good, too, but a little on the Aunt Jemima side. When you get down toward the bottom of the bottle it starts to cloy a little if you haven't just spent a long day a-flaggelatin' of your hindside.

The Porkalogical Congress

According to a highly reputable source, I am in second place, with an 8 pound loss in one week.

It was not my intent to show my hand this early: this is a marathon, not a sprint. I can only hope that my (apparent) jackrabbit start will cause some sensible turtle contestants to panic and try to become hares. A slim chance: they seem an unflappable bunch.

So I'm worried. On the other hand, at the weigh-in I heard some very encouraging talk about "free days."

"This is my free day! I'm going to Moe's!"

HEY, GOOD IDEA!

Now, today I ate at the poly-Latin place. I had the awesome pork chunks and vapid salad, of which I ate the tomatoes. There is no point in eating that stuff they call lettuce. There's no point ordering salad at the poly-Latin place in the first place: you need to get yucca or plantains or beans. But I'm not tryna lose my edge over no plate of fried Spanish bananas, I tell you what.

Fourth of July I had ribs and ribs plus ribs.

I'm going to make pork stock out of the bones and out of that I'm making kale soup. It's my own recipe that I wrote last night. I may share it if it turns out not to be pizen.

(I frikking hate Moe's.)

Hooraaaay!

It worked!

The contest people calipered my various flab, and they told me I'm 33.8% lipids. Wikipedia assures me that's solidly obese.

I thought I would have a lot to say, but I'm still so overwhelmed. I want to run and jump and put my arms around the whole world. $750, you are mine!