To say that I wrestle with my eating habits is an understatement. My grandmother, a notorious cookie-pusher, will yell at me to “leave some for her” after I have a go at her tray of Double-Stuff E.L.Fudges. You know those cookies? They’re little butter biscuits shaped like the Keebler elves that sandwich a fat glob of chocolate frosting. I introduced my diabetic grandmother to them and for that amongst many reasons, I’m headed to hell. They’re now her Drug of Choice.
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My mom’s dog, Ditka, wants to eat garbage. He loves the trash, especially paper products, his favorite being used Kleenex. If you turn your back on him for even a second, he’ll be pulling out the trash drawer so he can stand on his hind legs to dip his nose into the garbage, frantically choking down whatever it comes into contact with in an attempt to down something before you notice. Why does he do this? If he eats anything other that his expensive sensitive-stomach bison and rice dog food, he’ll puke. Everything he so surreptitiously consumed will come hurling back up. He sees no connection between eating garbage and the physical distress he suffers.
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“Stupid dog.” I’ll say as I clean up another puddle of digestive fluid and snotty Kleenex, “Will you never learn this junk is bad for you?” And then I’ll go over to my parent’s cupboard and grab a tub of Betty Crocker’s Rich and Creamy Triple Chocolate Fudge Chip Frosting (which features real Hershey’s chocolate!) and I’ll eat it by the spoonful as I stand there in my too-tight biggest pair of jeans.
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And this, children, is what we call irony.
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Becoming Funny 