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Weight a Minute
Written on 2001-12-07, at 2:00 a.m.
dizboy's disturbing daily diet...

1 Sampler Platter (Ruby Tuesdays)

1 Lollipop (Seay's Candy...mmmm...)

4 Bay Breezers

2 Smirnoff Ices

7 Cigarettes (I'm a weak bastard.)

John Live*

Poor lighting and alcohol does not a good photo make.

*Not at all live

CLIX!...I got a very strange E-mail the other day...so let me share it with you all...

Hey, buddy --

I checked in on you after reading the tag from your diary in QUOTED -- and

damn near broke my eyes trying to decipher ash against black.

I don't know enough about design to know if it's good or not, but it's

certainly not easily legible.

So goodbye, you'll never miss me, but muse on how many other people

shrugged and gave up trying to read and never sent you an e-mail to say why.

Alex K

Alex K, MD

Consultant Histopathologist

Ok, now...If this is really a problem, and not some random incident, please let me know, though I've never had a complaint about my layout before, I have to wonder if this is some isolated case or not.

Plus, I don't recall ever hearing a medical doctor using the term "broke my eyes", but, whatever.

Today in class, namely Biology of Human Sexuality, I discovered two very important things.

1) I must make a 95%, or higher on the final to pull off a "B" in that god-forsaken class. So yeah...no pressure.


2) The girl who's sat next to me, and who's joined in my ridiculing of all the idiots in class for the entire semester, is French.

And not like, "Yeah, my grandmother ate a baguette once." sort of French.

Like, card-carrying, beret wearing French.

Until today, I had not known that. And, as it's the last day of class before exams, we hade a lively conversation, in French mind you, on fashion, human sexuality (I didn't know the French term for "ovaries"), and how dull Americans can be.

Two days ago, I ate an entire pizza.

No, really.

An ENTIRE pizza.

And not like those little microwave pizzas either.

An honest-to-God entire Medium Josie's Pizza.

And though my eating habits are about as desirable as Carnie Wilson pre-stomach staple, I never seem to gain any weight.

I don't know the exact reasoning for this, only that I must assume that I have a high metabolism.

And by high, I mean that of a grasshopper on speed.

I would blame it on my parents, as they're both very fit for their ages, however, as I'm adopted, they offered about as much to my physical make up as Milli did to Vanilli.

Sometimes, I become concerned that the crap I put in my body will have some sort of everlasting effect...Like the Twinkie I eat tomorrow will sit, biding it's time somewhere in my body, with all the other non-healthy, fatty, disgusting foods I consume, ready to rise up like a group of agitated peasants, a la Les Miserables.

I envision this happening at an incredibly awkward moment.

I'm in a bar, flirting with someone, developing a good rapport, when suddenly my 140 pound frame expands to take on the look of a Hefty Cinch Sack filled with partially coagulated Jell-O.

This, is what I'm afraid of.

And to this day, I don't know that it scared me because I eat so poorly, and it's bound to be a side effect sooner of later, or if it's because of the drones of people out to burst my bubble with the phrase:

"You watch it, that'll catch up to you one of these days."

Making me feel much like some sort of weight fugitive, who's been granted this small frame only for a portion of life, until the tenacious, unstoppable force of fast-food tracks me down, beats down the door of my sanctuary, and we face off in a final show down where only stamina and Richard Simmons can help me.

I smoke, I drink, I occasionally do drugs, and yet nothing happens to my body.

It just says, "Oh, ok."

What I'm truly worried about is that my physiology shares the same mental proscess as my voluntary consciousness, and the reason that none of this has affected me as of yet is that the internal part of my body is just as lazy as I.

I suppose I could work out, but to me, these gyms look like leftover torture chambers from the Spanish Inqusition.

"Will you CONVERT?????"


"Very well...Diego...put him on the STAIR MASTER!"


I look at a gym the same way I look at the penguin exhibit at Sea World.

Far away, through the glass, and glad I'm not even half that moist.

You see, putting me in a gym is like putting an African tribesman in Circuit City.

It just doesn't go together.

Tonight was one of the first times I've actually enjoyed myself in a club.

I don't really know why, but the time was right, the drinks were free, and the doorman was hot.

So, when those three things are added together, you have an equation for all sorts of homosexual hijinks.

On the way to the actual club, I was stopped at a light next to a pimped out Mitsubishi Eclipse.

I could tell they were high-rollin' ganstas' because with my windows rolled up, I could still hear, and feel the bass from their car.

As I got into the bass beats of the music, something struck me as odd.

I looked over, and saw the two guys in the car looked totally pimp-happy, exuding the air of "Fag-be-gone."

Following the bass line for a few moments, I believed it sounded familiar.

Then, as one of them rolled down their window to dispose of a cigarette butt...I realized why it was familiar.

The song was "Wilkkommen", from "Cabaret".


And it wasn't just any showtune...It was Cabaret.

And it wasn't just any Cabaret, it was old school Liza Minnelli.

Yeah, because when I think of Liza, I think of Big Ballaz, deep dish car systems, and "Keepin' it real up hizere on da Broadway front.



But if not, wouldn't that be a bumper sticker...?

"Real men listen to Liza."

Be well...



Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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