Oh, to be a fly on the wall of the Dr. Oz writing room. No—to be a person on a chair in that writing room.
To make the cut on the Dr. Oz show, you’ve got to know a thing. The thing being, of course, redundancy. When you send the esteemed Dr. Mehmet Oz out into that standing-room-only-lioness-den-and-also-television-studio packed to the brim with bored, middle-aged women, he better be stuffed up to his beady little eyes with tips on how to lose weight.
If not, upon you will the harem of Oz feast.
So, if anyone from the Dr. Oz camp happens to be reading this, I went ahead and drafted a spec script:
Dr. Oz, returning from commercial: “Welcome back ladies, yes, I am a real doctor.” He pauses here to allow swooning. “Now, let’s get right to it: who wants to lose weight?”
Audience: “MEEEEEEEE!!!!! MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!”
Oz: “Okay then. I’ve got a secret to share, something no other doctor will ever tell you. Quick survey: how many of you eat a cheeseburger and French fries every day? Show of hands.”
Everyone raises their hand.
Oz: “Did any of you know that a diet like that is actually bad for you?”
Everyone looks around in disbelief.
Oz: “It’s true, it’s true. What if I told you that, instead of eating a cheeseburger and fries every day, you will lose weight if you eat broccoli and rice instead?”
The audience collectively bows down to The Oz: “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”
Dr. Oz: “And here’s a bonus tip—it’s also healthier to drink water instead of soda!”
Everyone is now spasming and speaking in tongues.
Dr. Oz: “And one more thing before we go: if you exercise instead of sitting on your couch, your metabolism will speed up!”
Something like scales fall from upon every eye in the audience. A massive rebirth has taken place. They all go forth into the world, ready to turn their lives around. However, in the time between the end of the show and the next morning, all of these brutal truths are washed away by one last binge, followed by the intoxicating coma that comes after eating a box of Cosmic Brownies….
Tomorrow, Dr. Oz replaces cheeseburger with hot dog. Broccoli becomes spinach. Water is now decaffeinated green tea. No one notices.
The unstoppable Oz cash cow continues to feast upon itself.
—->you once stuck your finger in a carny’s mouth because you didn’t think he had any teeth
—->you once dug around in a carny’s mouth searching for a finger
—->you once punched a carny in the face until his teeth fell out
—->you once used a broken beer bottle to slice open the stomach of a toothless carny
—->you once brought your own nibbled-up, chewing tobacco and stomach juice-soaked finger to the hospital, where you were told it could not be reattached
—->you once were in a hospital examination room, looking at the stump that used to be your left pointer finger, while a doctor told you that you were morbidly obese
—->now you’re gluten free, because that will help, just like Atkins, essential oils, watching Dr. Phil, owning one eight pound dumbbell, and taking the top part of the bun off your Arby’s roast beef sandwich did.
Latest moneymaking scheme:
Create an infomercial, to be aired late at night. The product: a workout system for alcoholics.
The alcoholics then order the system while they are schnockered, with no recollection of having done so. The purchase will be reflected on their bank statements as ‘Alcohol Store.’
Eight to ten business days later: the alcoholic receives a package in the mail, informing them they have won a free prize—a hot, chiseled body.
The alcoholic, in its drunken state, will be horny, and want to possess a hot, chiseled body, so that it will attract people that like hot, chiseled bodies.
The package contains several videos, none of which name my company.
The first video instructs the alcoholic to hit pause, and get black-out drunk, then proceed with the program—a ploy that will work perfectly, because alcoholics, by their very nature, love to get black-out-drunk.
Once the alcoholic is black-out drunk, the video descends into a parade of nothing, basically—footage of cats playing with yarn, black and white photos of weddings that occurred in the 1930s, spliced with actual workout scenes, in the event that the alcoholic experiences a moment of coherence.
The VHS tapes will be engineered to unspool after 30 minutes of viewing. The DVDs also have a built-in destruction mechanism: they look like coasters. After repeated poundings from Steel Reserve tall boys, those discs will be useless within the week. The tapes and discs are thrown away and soon forgotten.
Since they are under the impression that the videos were a free prize, and the only record of any purchases are attributed to the ‘Alcohol Store,’ as the infomercials continue to air, money continues to flow down from the alcoholic to me, in a textbook case of the trickle-down economy in action. And it’s good for the alcoholic: the more times they purchase my system, the less money they will have to abuse alcohol.
P90X, the massively popular fitness system engineered by Tony Horton, is a great workout—you can do it in the privacy of your home, and it only takes up about an hour of your day. The program does, however, have a repetitive nature. After three rounds through each workout video, unbeknownst to the viewer, disturbing apparitions have already seeped deep into the back doors and forgotten corners of the brain, combining to form a horrific dreamscape, culminating in violent sexual nightmares about Tony Horton. Seriously. It happened to this guy I know.
It starts out mild—basic dreams of Tony in front of you grunting, sweating, proclaiming “I like these pushup handles because they let you go extra deep.” So I’m told. It never happened to me. It happened to my friend.
Innocent enough. Then, the dream repeats, exactly the same, only Horton is now behind you, out of sight. No matter how much you spin, he is forever at your backside. A one-eighty that the man who told me all this wouldn’t wish on his greatest foe. He pulled me aside and made it totally clear that he, my friend, would wish to endure Dante’s Hell rather than a psychoid-level bout with Tony Horton’s dreambeast.
Then, around week six of the program, I’m led to believe you’re right in the middle of a deep plyometric burn, totally awake, and the lights dim—it’s a daydream, or the power went out, maybe someone slipped LSD into your recovery drink—no one knows, and T-Hort is rootin’ around in your underwear, and you return the favor, according to my friend. Pretty gross. You’re both looking each other in the eyeball, bottom-scooping the contents of each other’s drawers. So I was told in such graphic detail it’s almost as if I experienced these night terrors myself.
What I wanted to relay to all of you, through the cautionary tales of my friend, is that P90X will sculpt your body, I suppose. And oh, yeah, it will also carve a deep fissure into a part of your brain you maybe didn’t even know existed, and create channels leading to a 36-chambered Shaolin temple-like complex, where one must perform hallucinogenic battles with fitness icons from Jack LaLanne to Richard Simmons, inevitably ending in the insanity of the dreamer.
But it’s all about looking hot on the outside, so don’t worry about your brain.
Here’s something I concocted. It’s got honey. It’s got oats. It’s got peanut butter. You can call it honey peanut butter oat food meal, oats with honey and peanut butter snack, or H.O.P.B. (pronounced ‘hop’—the ‘B’ is silent, like in womb, or plumber).
Now, the ingredient list goes like this: oats, honey, and peanut butter. Also, love, care, friendship. And last, but not least, dead skin cells. This last is easiest, as it’s nearly impossible not to get them in there.
Grab a bowl. Insert the oats, honey, and peanut butter into it. The dead skin cells won’t be far behind. As to the love, care, and friendship, you go about getting those into the mix however you see fit.
Microwave for around 20 seconds. The chemical reaction betwixt the peanut butter and friendship and heat will form a sort of soft, paste-like substance that will make everything else mix together.
It’s ready to eat now. You earned it, champ.
From the Swedish, meaning “speed play,” fartlek is a method of exercise using bursts of intense physical effort, followed by a period of laid-back, more relaxing work.
My nipples are my livelihood. Did you know that, in lieu of a lactating woman, a man’s nipple has a placebocratic effect on a hungry infant? Or, when slathered in peanut butter, the masculine teat can provide fun and sustenance for canines? These are just two uses for what many believe to be a vestigial adornment on the male body.
So why Man Nipple Health Awareness Month? Just the other day, Lefty was nearly mangled by the business end of a pitchfork. I escaped with minor abrasions. After many, many erotic soapings followed by even steamier Neosporin applications to the affected area, it got me thinking that I’ve always taken all of the nipples on my body for granted. You never know when circumstances will arise that can tragically rip, scrape, suck, or slice one off. This October, be aware of your nipples, and the rippling influence they have had on your life. Treasure them, dammit. Treasure them.