“It’s not gluttony,” I protest, “Gluttony is the only of the seven deadlies I’m not interested in”.
And it really isn’t gluttony. I don’t eat if I’m not hungry. I just happen to have a hunger as rampant and insatiable as Mormon cultist’s addiction to wives.
Cultist 1: There’s a leak in the water pipe.
Cultist 2: Shove a wife in it.
Yes, my colossal appetite has finally come under scrutiny. From two sides. I suppose I have been getting away with it for too long.
A new flatmate remarks: “He has this amazing appetite! Where the hell does he put it all?”
The staff at my office have given me a nickname: Robbie Large Lunch.
I think they have taken it upon themselves to bully me into a nervosa. Good luck! Now that John Prescott has ‘come out’ as Bulimic, it no longer seems like a cool mental disorder to have. I’ll stick to my paranoia, thanks.
It is true to say that I’m a miracle of nature. With every morsel I defy physics. The exact same weight since the age of seventeen, I am thinner than the guy from The Machinist yet I consume more sushi on a daily basis than the kraken‘s fat dad.
I alone am responsible for the shameful plundering of North Sea cod reserves. Never mind Biofuel: the food commission should be working towards eliminating me. One day I will drink the entire ocean and eat the land of all continents.
I will also eat you.
And your mum and your dad and your dog.
“Robbie Large Lunch” reminds me of a chap my father used to work with. A teacher, he was nicknamed “Tony Two Puds” on account of the fact that he was once witnessed leaving the lunch queue with two desserts.
I like to imagine that poor old Tony Two Puds only ever once had a double pudding.
Poor old Tony Two Puds: found dead in his bathroom, age 44, after drinking the Toilet Duck. He has surrounded himself with ironic towers of trifle. An ice cream scoop in each hand, his half-eaten suicide note reads:
– Yours Sinceierly, Tony Two Puds.
Ho hum. Time for lunch.