Tuesday, November 30, 2004

I spent the majority of Thanksgiving break in bed, gentle reader, as sick as a dog with a predilection for collecting viruses. Despite my feverish state, despite the gloriously delusional bus stops before unconsciousness, my entrepreneurial wheels continued to turn.

I wanted to bottle my virus and sell it. Botox paved the way for bacterially assisted treatments, so why wouldn’t my virus be desirable? There were certain flashes during my weekend, times when I didn’t wonder if I would die, where I could eat a single meal and still feel satisfied all day.

You know what that means. Atkins can take his rashers of bacon and keep them to himself, just as all the South Beach books in the world can stay in the south. There’s a new diet in town. If you want a sample, simply send me a self-addressed envelope with a plastic baggie.