CHUCKLES, THE BOMBER

Time passes and what do you do? You're overweight and the rest of your life is before you. You can make another halfhearted attempt to overcome the distress, which serves the guilt rather than the problem. Weak. You can resign yourself to the incapacity and continue a decline of physical and emotional health. Cowardly. You can ignore, procrastinate, scorn or pretend to embrace your fatness. Dumb. You can laugh and joke with your weight-challenged friends and seek all the distractions money can buy. Gluttonous. Roll around and assist your diabetic tendency, dare a heart attack and mock a stroke. Ignorant. Go ahead. Join the masses. It's free, easy and, if numbers are any indication, quite popular. I'd be under-estimating if I told you nine out of ten people make those choices. Ordinary. Don't be one of them.

Listen, I want to run something by you... get a reaction or whatever. I'm writing a book on the epidemic overweight condition and what can be done about it. The truth is I ran out things to say after seventy-five provocative words: Exercise, eat right and stick to it. I repeat the stirring message ten times for emphasis and special effect. Then with poetic drama I speak directly to the absorbed reader and command, "Okay, tubby, now do it." Somebody at the gym overheard me talking about my approach in writing "Straight Talk for the Overweight" and asked kindly, "Who's going to buy it?" I later felt badly about throwing her out the back door and into the parking lot. After all, she had a good point. Any ideas?

I'm becoming jaded. I've been thinking of nothing else but fat for a month. Beats being fat, Laree reminds me. She's so cute. I just don't want to write another book on the sluggish subject that scrapes like chalk on the chalkboard. A black and white opus without colors and tones, trumpet sounds and crashing waves of hysterical waters, sunshine on the brow, cooling redwood shades of hope and long shadows of dignity. Did you know that if you multiply 12 calories times your bodyweight in pounds you'll come up with the number of calories needed to support an average woman's energy needs for an average day? Snore... My goody-good-goodness. Could you please repeat that again? I'm stunned.

Precious life is a gift and miracle in our hand and we treat it as if it was a rec-center, a dirt bike or a dumpster. We mostly ignore it, neglect it and trash it. Personally, I once won the tarnished gold star for most promising derelict and I can't tell ya how proud I am. Repeat after me: Train hard, eat right and smile. The Bomber's Creed. Let's talk about something else for a while, okay? Getting ripped by July 15th.

Here's a true story I just made up. It happened just the other day on the far side of the old corral.

Violent flames burst the windows and smoke billowed from the wood frame cottage of widow Mary Billings. "My son, my son," she shrieked as she ran desperately toward the house, "My little boy, Billy, is in the burning house." A brave young policeman dashed to her side and held her back saying, "Don't you worry, miss. I'll save little Billy." The young officer turned and disappeared into the thick smoke, the fierce hissing and crackling blaze. No ordinary man could withstand the inferno and hope for the two ended when the fire-engulfed roof crashed thunderously to the floor.

A dense hot cloud, bursting and spitting heat, pushed back the gathering crowd of awestruck spectators. Shoulders slumped, cries and sighs mingled with the receding roar of the killer fire. An uncanny calm filled the dust, tasting bitter of burnt dreams and scorched hope. Hush replaced frenzy. A small voice called out, "Mommy, Mommy," and from the gray glow of nightmare emerged the tall figure of a man in blue. Little Billy was cradled in his powerful arms.

The crowd stared in unbelief. And then jubilant shouts of joy spilled over the clearing air. That's Big John. He trains hard and eats right. He drinks Bomber Blend for breakfast and whenever he needs super power. He saved little Billy's life. Big John... he's a hero.

My brain is numb from too much fat thought and laptop rap. To further dismantle my life I've cut back on my workouts and gym hours, allowing me more time to squander. Three days a week. I feel deprived but I don't ache as much and the mood at the gym has generally improved.

Signing off... Chuckles, the Bomber