I took all opportunities to force feed my special brand of holiday cheer to all comers. The ladies in the traffic department were accused of preparing the "yule log". People entering and exiting the bathrooms were forced to endure this same accusation. That's high comedy, yo. There was a lot of sugar presented, and I ate some of all of it. I noshed, nibbled, sampled and horked, I swelled, bloated, puffed and blanched. I feel very unsightly indeed. I spent wildly, as if I hadn't a care nor an obligation in the world. I experienced a small windfall, and of course rather than proceeding with frugal caution I went buck wild, waving my debit card like an epileptic at an auction. I have not yet stopped eating everything I want to eat. There is no discipline, friends, not a speck. I am, as I type, swallowing the last of a greasy disc of processed meat hacked from a "Yard-O'-Beef". That's not even really food; it's just grease fashioned into a tube shape. This is the kind of fare that can make one's colon suddenly go all Water-Willie. I pray the liquid effects pass me by, as did the wrath of the cran-nags. I am just going to eat sugar until I'm either satisfied or look like Rocky from Mask. Soon my jawline will disappear into a undulating sea of flesh, my eyes becoming like two cloves poked into an ever-growing, doughy wad. Today I asked my Aunt Phyllis, on-air, to cook "hog jowls". God, help me.
Yes, that's my fast-dissolving self esteem you smell.
