Close Up Photographs of Hottest Man on Earth Postponed Until Futher Notice; 86 lbs. of Leftovers Devoured in Four Days

Thanksgiving has come and gone. This year I ate myself into a complete stupor. I sat on the couch still as a pumpkin for about three hours till I felt like I could stand up without rolling away. Then I walked to the fridge for leftovers. I was like a junkie in the throes of his addiction. 

By Saturday I knew I needed professional help. I had just finished a turkey sandwich, eight inches tall, layered with stuffing and cranberry sauce that spilled out of the bread and onto the plate, everything heated up in the microwave and drowning in gravy. This was breakfast, and for the sixth meal in a row I had again eaten myself to a state of near unconsciousness. I think I remember my son bouncing a baseball off my head. Three or four times, my son hitting me in the head with a baseball. 

When I came to I knew things had gone too far, that my eating habit, if I didn’t get control of it, was going to put me in a straight jacket, in a room with padded walls and rubber sheets. 

Growing up, my brothers and I were all big eaters. Sunday dinner was a three helping affair that took at least an hour. These days, when I get together with them—effete, de-masculinized men, products of the age we live in—the meal’s over in ten minutes; too worried about their “figures” to stack it high and deep on the plate like they used to. 

Me, I’ve remained a big eater, especially on Thanksgiving. I just never imagined it would get to the point it got to this past weekend, meal after meal beached on the couch, later on the floor, totally incapable of movement. 

Gluttony, that’s what it was. Pure gluttony. If my other bodily appetites were so out of control, so unfettered, I’d have fathered a small nation by now. I’m sorry, for my wife’s sake, to have to speak so crudely. But I believe it’s part of the healing process.