What It's Like To Be Me

NOTE: I can't tell you how many emails, letters, pleading voice mails, notes tied to thrown bricks, etc. that I receive on a daily basis from readers who desperately want to know just what it's like to be C-dog. Well, as always, and because I can't sleep, I'm happy to give you a little peek into my life with these three short, tangentially related anecdotes. I think it's safe to say that, after reading them, digesting them and taking them to heart, you'll wish that you hadn't asked. Also, I misspelled "tangentially" a minute ago and before I corrected it, the middle part of the word was "genital." Ha!!!

one

I had a weird craving for orange juice the other day so, in a shocking twist, I bought some at the grocery store. I took it home, allowed it to get nice and cold in the fridge for an hour or so, and then I poured myself a hearty, big-boy glass that nearly overflowed with sweet, pulpy tastiness. I took a big swig and immediately I knew that something wasn't right. But what? I checked the date on the carton; no, it was well before the expiration date (June 9th, for all you fact nerds out there). I examined the glass to make sure there wasn't anything on the rim that would taint the orange juice's flavor. After I had a chuckle at my usage of the word "taint," I determined that all was well with the glass it's self. So the orange juice was of a fine quality and the glass was as it should be... why then did the orange juice taste so odd. Then, it hit me: The orange juice tasted odd because it didn't have any booze in it. I sighed heavily, finished off the glass, and settled down on the couch, allowing the gentle sobbing of my liver to lull me to a sound sleep.

two

Girlfriend and I went for a walk today and this was the outfit that I chose to wear out in public:

-A TCU baseball cap that was once white and purple. It is now dark brown and purple. I'll let you figure out how it got that way, but know that it basically took the same path as John McClaine's undershirt in Die Hard, but with less terrorists.

-A pair of shorts that I made by cutting the legs off of a pair of old, crappy slacks. The shorts are unevenly cut, ragged and thread-y around the knees and have a hole in the crotch.

-A blue t-shirt that's been worn and sweated in so many times that the armpits are now black. It's also had the collar ripped off of it and it has a dime-sized hole around the gut region.

-A pair of my girlfriend's socks.

-Shoes that have not one, not two, not even three, but four separate holes in them large enough to allow a cool breeze to flow over my feet when I walk down the stairs.

three

I went to a Memorial Day party at my friend Buzz's apartment over the weekend. After I'd been there for about an hour, I took a good look around (on my way to the kitchen for a margarita refill) and realized that I was the only fat person at the party. I recognize that it's my own fault for attending a party in Williamsburg, a section of Brooklyn which has a weight limit that's strictly enforced at the border (I sneak in under the cover of darkness by disguising myself as an American Apparel outlet), but still. It's damn disconcerting to be the only person in a crowd for whom the phrase "large and in charge" applies. I felt like everyone was watching me when I made for the chip bowl. As I grabbed a Tostito and dipped into the salsa, cartoon thought bubbles appeared over my fellow party-goer's heads that read, "Oh no, fatty's at it again," and, "If I look closely, I can see his ass swell," and "How'd he make it past the guards?" I'm not normally a self-conscious person, but you try weighing a stout 280 while standing in a group of people that are all together about as heavy as a package of Mentos.

conclusion

So there you go. Let it never be said that I didn't give you the opportunity to walk a mile in my shoes. Those holes really let your feet breath, no?