The Chubbiness Conspiracy

I've just discovered who the real culprit is in America's losing war against obesity. It's the restaurant food industry; that's who it is.

Last night after church, a group of us trooped innocently into an ambush at the Pizza Pit. We should have known. There were the seedy-looking agents all around, ushering us smilingly to a table, arranging our chairs with oh-so-much room between them, offering us first a glass of highly-overpriced soda with double the fizz, warding off the occasional sane voice that might be tempted to ask for "mere water" by the condescending look they gave as they listed the choices.

Now anybody can understand that a restaurant makes more money if each person at the table spends seven dollars on a sandwich instead of two dollars on a sandwich, so two-dollar sandwiches were not even on the menu; neither were two dollar pizza bits. No, all the entrees were expensive, but, to justify the price, they were also enormous. My "ham" (disguised as Mountain of Fire and Delectable Oceans of Cheese) sandwich rested majestically on a large bed of fluffy, yellow potato chips next to a pickle. Of course, nobody pays those kinds of prices and then throws away half the precious meal, and if the sandwich is drizzled with enough dressing to make the Sahara soggy, nobody is tempted to take it home in a doggy bag so they can eat it for breakfast the next morning. There is only one thing a diner can do---choke it down, barely pausing long enough to dig out all the hidden jalepenos, which, by the way, were not properly warned against in the menu. So I forced myself to eat it all...and I had to drink two large glasses of diet Pepsi to help the missed jalepenos down. Meanwhile, the juke box played loud songs full of beat so we customers would bounce in time to the song, and have the illusion that we were exercising.

On the way home I repented in ashes and bitter tears. I felt like a cross between Vesuvius and the Dead Sea. Hiccups assailed me, like subtle warnings of imminent tectonic plate shifts...and I couldn't believe I had actually paid good money for the privilege of gaining another five pounds. Woe is me!

Ah well. Alas. Now I'll have to pay an exorbitant price to use the health club to walk off the pounds. So what I'm wondering is this: Why doesn't the money I pay to the health club compel me to take advantage of my entire work-out like the money I paid for the wicked sandwich compelled me to finish it. Life is so confusing!