BREAKING: Chocolate Will Still Make You Fat, Fatty

I usually try to get my news from the BBC, or at least "The Daily Show." I figure that way everything's in perspective, admittedly left-leaning, but admittedly left-leaning. For the most, this is noted and an honest effort is made to report facts without opinion, until such time as opinion is obviously the topic at hand.

However, I am a bit saddened to see even the BBC report, as happens every few months, that chocolate is actually good for you. Moreover, that it "may" help "you" lose weight.

Thankfully, they do point out that correlation proves nothing of causation, simply that people who ate chocolate more frequently were typically slimmer than people who ate chocolate only occasionally, even while compensating for BMI and caloric intake.

1. Of course, this is kind of burying the lead when you substitute a new lead implying directly that the correlation may yield a direct linear causation, i.e. "Chocolate 'may help keep people slim.'" Great job.

And secondly,

2. Of course people who eat chocolate more often are on average slimmer than people who eat chocolate less often. We're skinny assholes.

BMI and caloric intake have nothing at all to do with how quickly your body can process those calories, other than to give you an estimation as a result, not an impetus. I can eat gobs of cocoa because I have a fast metabolism, thus I stay slimmer and determine that I can safely enjoy chocolate more frequently without running the risk of putting on weight.

Someone with a slower metabolism, but with an equal BMI and caloric intake to mine¹ will have to monitor what they eat rigidly to achieve the same results, and therefor not be able to enjoy such a delicious treat as often, lest they go completely elephant seal and loathe themselves into a tear-soaked pillow slumber.

Chocolate doesn't make you thinner. Being thinner lets you eat more chocolate. Now feel free to hate me while I finish off the last 4 servings of that Slice'n'Share one-pound Snickers bar I didn't share with anybody. (Amazing review here.)



¹Alright, impossible, since having a faster metabolism requires me to consume more calories to match your BMI, or conversely you to consume fewer to match mine.

On the McRib

It was innocent enough, the Facebook status of a friend simply reading, "… is about to eat a McRib for the first time in 15 years."

"What kind of fucking parent lets a 7 year old have a McRib?" I commented, adding the face-saving "(No offense.)"

I figured the joke stood, but as soon as someone came out in favor of the McRib (or my friend's parents), which they did, I could add some B.S. about clarifying my point and that a 7 year old cannot appreciate all that is McRib, which I did.

But it gave me an idea. I needed to get food. I needed a log. The McRib could solve everything.

I got dressed and drove out at 12:30 a.m. to get a McRib from the 24-hour McDonald's. The traffic lights were just blinking yellow in every direction and the roads were slick as a cold mist fell in the dark.

Full disclosure: I haven't had fast food or soda in about two weeks, due chiefly to not eating like a fat fuck and simply relying on a high metabolism anymore. That said, I'm writing this with what I assume is an MSG/Trans Fat/caffeine migraine.

Thoughts

1. I hop it doesn't come with onions. (It does.)
2. God, it's taking a long time. At least I guess that means the food's all fresh. (As fresh as it comes, I guess.)
3. I wonder if I can toss the rolled up straw wrapper back through the window? (Totally.)

Brought it home. Soda tasted weird at first. Think it was lack of familiarity. Got over that real fast. Then I open the box and see this:

Basically, that meat patty's way too big for the bun. The bun's pretty good, though. It's almost like whole-grain on the outside, but then it's still white, processed crap inside. The meat itself, well, it's basically the same generic meat as the hamburger, pressed into a longer shape and dowsed in enough barbecue sauce that you don't notice. Oh, and there are pickles on it.

Final verdict: I am too classy for the McRib. My taste buds have acclimated to healthy food and they never really liked BBQ sauce to begin with.

Still better than if I had spent the day running and doing sit-ups. I tried something new and I'm happy. The only real downside is they never gave me a receipt, so I can't write this off on my taxes as a $6.27 business expense (filed under blog research).

On Salt

I went grocery shopping the other day, pretty much entirely for sandwich finxin's, whole wheat and white bread, tomatoes, cheeses, roasted beasts and the like.

There are really only three guys who work the deli counter at our local A&P: Old Italian Guy, who always gives me a few slices of everything to snack on as long as it's not very busy; Young Latino Guy, who actually speaks perfect English and can handle orders in both metric and Imperial measurements and is always happy and talkative; and of course 14 Year Old Pudgy White Boy Who Never Remembers An Order, Can't Seal A Deli Ziplock Bag For Shit and Has Cost Me Many Dollars In Cheese Going Moldy Too Fast Who Always Calls Me "Sir."

If you don't already hate this kid as much as I do, he's basically one more testicle descending away from being this wonderful fellow:



However, this last trip was a bit more fun for me.

It was relatively busy and everyone was working at once. Obviously, I got stuck with Chubs and so made my order one piece at a time and slowly. Twice each. I began with 3/4 lb. of roast beef.

"Regular or salt-free?" he asked. (Not an unreasonable question.)

"Regular," I said.

"…Salt-free is on sale, though." Really? Have I already begun the physical metamorphosis fated me by my Yiddish grandpaternity? Have I taken on the appearance of a wrinkled, old diabetic who splurges at every opportunity to consume the same delicious sodium chloride which will one day raise my blood's pressure high enough to burst forth from its arterial prison and pool inside my brain cavity? Have I?

"No. Regular is fine," I assured Whitey.


As "The Beaver" sliced my beef (not a metaphor), something which he had to pause in to check if I had wanted a half-pound (wrong), I muttered under my breath:

"I LIKE salt."

This was apparently and I swear completely unintentionally hilarious, at least to the woman in line next to me. In her late twenties and shopping with someone who seemed to be her affable mother-in-law, she was young enough still remember how delicious bad food is but still old enough to appreciate the willfulness to relinquish adult responsibilities and malign annoying people in public.


Fuck that kid. I like me my salt.

On the KFC Double Down

I ate one of these monstrosities today.

I have to assume it's some kind of secret Illuminati plot against humanity, designed to slow our hearts and weaken the immune system. The only word I found circling my head as I ordered and stared at this abortion of culinary science was "insidious." The only word I had to describe the taste was "delicious."

Like all great-but-terrible ideas, and some children, this was a purely impulse decision, and I can easily lay about 63% of the blame of Dean McGowan, who claimed that this product could be a new addiction to replace smoking. I could not comment, as my eyes were held wider in awe than they are naturally prone to open.

You see I was on my way to the bathroom this around 6 p.m. when my phone rang. Still tethered by its charging cable, I halted to answer it rather than bring it with me. It was Dean calling.

"Yo, are you near a restroom?"

"Er, yes? Yes, I'm home."

"Oh. But were you about to go to the bathroom at all?"

"Actually, yeah. Why? Are you coming over?" This requires a bit of explanation: Dean has the amazing ability to coincide his visits to my apartment with the precise moments my stomach decides it has done its job for the day and is dumping its workload onto my colon.

"I'm driving home now, yeah. I just– I felt the need to call you and I thought it meant maybe you were in the bathroom already. Can I come over?"

"Yeah, sure. Just, um, give me a minute? In the the bathroom?"


***


The actual bad decisions came shortly thereafter. We sat around talking for a bit, I inquiring into how Dean's job was, he inquiring on how I manage to possess such nice things while remaining a professional slacker. (The answer is to be surprisingly boring 80% of the time and incredibly interesting only around other people.)

Dean mentioned he was probably going to go get a KFC Double Down for dinner just to try it. I said I'd wanted to do that. He asked if I wanted to come. I said I just needed to put on a clean shirt and a belt.

Sparing the grizzle-y details, the sandwich is actually fairly tasty. "Colonel Sauce" is essentially honey mustard heavy on the mayo, and one piece of chicken will break in half from the outset, but otherwise it's all rather decent. Only 540 calories isn't too bad, but it's the 1300mg of sodium that'll kill you. I substituted the potato wedges in my meal for some coleslaw, so I think I might be safe.

Dean's Choice Quote: "The question isn't how someone came up with this idea, it's how no one came up with it until 2010."

Dave's Choice Quote: "This is exactly why the terrorists want to kill us."

Dean then asked, "Because we're happy?" and insinuated that all women were terrorists, angry at men for being happy. They're terrorists, we're free citizens. I believe the direct quote was, "All women are terrorists. They're mad at men for being happy. They're terrorists, we're free citizens." That is very true, because women would absolutely hate this Orwellian chicken sandwich.