Happy New Years

My New Year’s Resolution is to gain 200 pounds. No, I’m not dangerously thin, and no, I don’t want to gain 200 pounds of pure muscle. I want to gain 200 pounds of pure, unfiltered waste — the equivalent of 700,000 calories in brownies, snickerdoodles, cupcakes, fudge, BlueBell, Dr Pepper, M&Ms, pure butter sandwiches, and guacamole milkshakes. There’s no particular rhyme or reason to my resolution; it will probably take 10 years off of my life and inflict disgust onto any women I meet, both in the process of gaining the weight and after having put it on.


The reason I want to gain 200 pounds is that it’s attainable. It may take dedication, and it may actually cost quite a bit of money, but it’s something that I can accomplish over the next year. Compare that with losing the same amount of weight — or even losing 20 pounds. I’ve told myself that I’d lose X pounds every year for the past decade, and I’ve always watched the vibrant flame of ambition be doused by the extinguishing spirit of defeat. The same probably goes for millions of people across the globe: they set out to do something year after year, and year after year they watch the ball drop on TV while straining the joints holding together their Lazy Boy.



Not me. This year, I’m setting out to accomplish something so devoid of purpose and requisite effort that there’s no way I won’t accomplish it. How great will it feel to ring in 2010 from the comfort of a motorized scooter, knowing that only a year earlier I set out a lofty goal that I have now met? It’ll feel great. And I’ll wash that great feeling down with a mouth full of liquefied caramel, take a hit off of my oxygen tank, and set the next year’s resolution: to re-gain my
virginity.