Showing posts with label cannibal diet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cannibal diet. Show all posts

Monday, April 6, 2015

Weekly World News & baby born without a nose


My first thought when I heard the newscaster say a baby had been born without a nose was that the Weekly World News had commandeered the airwaves.

Oh, how I wish that were true. The world right now could use more of the kind of heyday news the WWN published.

She was the black-’n’-white sister publication of the National Enquirer back when I was running around with those swashbucklers. The rogue organizations were housed in the same Lantana, Florida, building, separated by just a seven-foot partition.

And when the day was done, reporters and editors from both publications would converge on the same small bar and swap stories of what that day’s news gathering had reaped.

It was there I learned what to me is the absolute distillation of pure journalism. It was from a WWN editor who told me:

“If a woman calls and says her toaster is talking to her, I don’t refer her to mental health experts. I tell her to put the toaster on the phone.”

It was because of that sort of open-mindedness that the WWN became a bastion of lively news headlines like:

• “Cannibal food critic rates people he’s eaten based on their nationalities! (Mexicans and Chinese were “too spicy,” but Americans were highly rated for taste and texture.

• “Cruel surgeon re-attaches Siamese twins after they fail to pay their bill!”

• “Astronomer furious after NASA bosses rebuke him for ‘endlessly staring into space.’”

They broke the news that Dick Cheney was a robot; that Elvis Presley had died — in 1994; and that after stealing a race car that Big Foot would henceforth be known as “BigLEADfoot.”

But I most loved the often poignant stories of children born with unusual deformities.

There was the one about the baby who’d been born with a wooden leg; one about a baby born with false teeth, and the sweet story of the loving parents who were raising a child who’d been born without bones.

It had pictures of the Dad carrying the boy around in a bucket, the child’s smiling face floating up there on the top.

“Just because he ain’t got no bones don’t mean he’s not our son and that we won’t love him,” said Pops, who admitted the condition made hugging hard.

So you can see why I thought, “Baby born without nose!” was a story straight out of the old WWN.

Turns out it was not.

It’s straight out of Alabama.

“Eli’s doing great,” said mother, Brandi McGlathery. “He’s just like every other baby. He just doesn’t have a nose. Troy (the baby’s father) says all the time, ‘I think it gives him character.’ We think Eli is perfect the way he is.”

The condition is known as congenital arhinia. There are only 41 known cases in the entire world.

The pair said if the boy wants a nose, they’ll get him one, finances permitting.

Like lots of individuals, I’m a full organ donor. Heart, liver, lungs, eyes — come and get it.

Now I’m wondering if I could donate Eli my big ol’ booger barn. It would look really funny on him now, likely to cover his entire face. And the mustache would have to be thrown in as part of the deal. The nose and the mustache have been inseparable since 1986. 

If the kid’s savvy, he’ll use his parents’ gracious understanding as a bargaining chip.

“But I don’t want a stupid nose … I want a Corvette!”

And as the son of an optician, I wonder how he’ll ever get to wear sunglasses.

Every single pair of glasses requires at least a little stabilizing nose bone or the glasses will slide right off the face.

I guess he could use a right and a left monocle, but that would likely distort his orbital muscles into a permanent squint. 

But the kid’s going to need sunglasses.

Because you can, indeed, be cool and not need a nose. But you can’t be cool without a great pair of shades.

Of course, that’s just me, a guy with a real nose for news who’s always looking on the bright side of things.



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Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Dietary thoughts on weight gain, cannibals


I like to ask fitness fanatics if tragic circumstances required it which part of themselves would they eat first.

This is particularly fun with vegetarians.

Yes, self-cannibalization gives new depth to the old you-are-what-you-eat adage.

I’m spending a lot of time thinking about weight gain these days. I tell myself I’m still working off my winter paunch. But I’m becoming less sure about just which winter. I fear my paunch is becoming permanent.

I did eat a lot this winter, most of it over five glorious binge days in Las Vegas.

The weight gain becomes more noticeable when the summer shorts and slacks come out and once-roomy garments are uncomfortably snug. 

Drives me crazy. I detest almost anything that restricts my movement, the exception being family obligations which often restrict me from staying out drinking beer and eating pizza when there’s a good game on.

Health nuts might scoff, but I think I have a pretty decent diet.

Breakfast is usually a banana or an apple. Once a week I get one donut or one breakfast sandwich from McDonald’s. 

Lunch is almost always a big salad and a sandwich or a piece of fish on the grill.

And my wife, who usually helms supper, is admirable about making sure we eat healthy.

I probably eat burgers or something fried at The Pond about three times a week (two lunch or maybe one dinner).

Is it all that beer, you may be wondering. Yes, I drink a lot of beer, but I always urinate a near equal measure so in my mind that can’t be it.

My father was a tubby gent, but he drank three or four beers each night. I do not drink beer at home, preferring to drink maybe a dozen or so at the bar two or three nights a week.

That sounds like a lot, but I stretch them out over about six hours so I consider it wise moderation, albeit wise moderation in reckless excess.

Either way, I’m not giving up my happy bar nights so let’s just drop it.

Exercise?

I probably walk two or so miles about four or five days a week. It’s not habitual, but I do 50 push-ups probably three times a week. I should do more sit-ups, but they’re a real grind and anytime I lay flat my mind automatically shifts to nap mode. 

So why am I unhappy with my physique?

I guess it’s because I can’t get the rest of me to resemble my calves.

I spend a lot of time with my bare legs crossed up on my desk. It’s my reading pose.

When it’s time to turn a page or just take a look around, I often spy my calves, nicely toned from walking, and say, “Man, you’ve really got some nice legs. They’re gorgeous.”

And I do say this right out loud, and often follow it up with a polite, “Thank you. That’s very kind of you to notice.”

My body may be in decent shape, but my mental health from working all alone for so many years is an absolute mess.

I remember thinking a cannibal would go right for those calves. 

(Joke break: What do you call a cannibal who’s careful about not over-eating? A cannibbler.)

That’s why I’m so dismayed about my gut. 

Even worse is when I gaze in the mirror and see the Rodell neck.

I first noticed it on my Dad when he was about my age and we were golfing on a breezy day. He turned in profile and I remember seeing his neck flapping like some  careless sailor had forgotten to secure the spinnaker.

I remember recoiling in horror and thinking, man, if I inherit that freakish abnormality I’ll wind up spending all my retirement dough on drawers full of turtlenecks.

Unfortunately, it was all I inherited from the old man.

So I’m not too concerned about a middle aged spread. That can be addressed.

The real problem is all this useless fat up above my shoulders.

But if you’ve read this far, that’s nothing you didn’t already know.



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