You’ve heard this from me plenty of times, but this time I’m serious: I’ve got to get into shape.
The clincher this time happened at a local restaurant. I walked up to place my order, and the cashier interrupted me right when I said, “I’d like a…”
“Do you ever watch that show Diners, Drive Ins and Dives?” she asked.
“Um, yeah?” I said, somewhat confused.
“Well, has anyone ever told you that you look just like that guy who hosts that show?” she asked.
Let’s stop here for those of you who do not know what the host of Diners, Drive Ins and Dives looks like or who he is.
His name is Guy Fieri.
And Guy is – no offense -- a chubby, round-faced gentleman with yellowish-white spiky hair. He looks like he enjoys his job of discovering restaurants that serve food capable of fully clogging one main artery directly after consumption.
Oh, look. Here he is on the right.
Now, first – my hair does not look as if I sat in a hot tub while sticking my finger in an electrical socket. Second – my hair is not the color of a Post-It note. And third – and this is so important that I will precede it with a colon: I do NOT have man boobs.
I have a lot of buddies who have man boobs, and God bless ‘em, they could care less. I, on the other hand, would walk in front of a runaway gravel-filled dump truck than develop man boobs. Yes – I’m that shallow, pathetic and vain.
Of course, I’m also lazy, and I love fried foods, mashed potatoes and lots of warm buttered bread.
Push ups and raw broccoli are not part of Rob’s nutritional program.
Naps and a bucket of original recipe KFC are.
But, to repeat: I do NOT have man boobs. Yet.
I will admit, however, that my abdomen has somewhat softened and expanded. For instance, when I’m lounging in my bubble bath and I reach for the chocolate milkshake I’ve placed on top of the toilet beside me, my entire belly shifts and rolls over in slow motion to the side as I get the glass.
In fact, my belly somewhat resembles a large balloon filled with Jell-O.
But it’s nowhere near Fieri-size, and I will repeat for a third time: I do NOT have man boobs.
So, perhaps my physique is somewhat salvageable as I approach birthday number 44 in November (plan your gift-giving now, dear readers).
Oh, and I realize that this has become a tired subject in these pages over the years. Many of you have read this type of thing before, and I’ll admit I can write a column about my fears of becoming another Chris Farley in my sleep.
But cut me some slack.
I mean, after last week’s probable Pulitzer Prize-winning column concerning my collection of decapitated heads, I should be allowed to coast a little bit.