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No guilt in fat

not so for VP

November 30, 1999|By TIM ROWLAND

I want all the health hounds' apologies on my desk in the morning. I want an apology for every luscious globule of rich, oozing fat that I have sacrificed for some dry, shriveled, husk of fibrous, semi-edible food-lint.

I want it for every cheeseburger that I have denied myself for a bowl of hay and raisins. For every time I have ingested a chemical-laced, low-cal fat imitator, thinking "what's a little thorax cancer if I have a good heart," I want to hear them say I'm sorry.

You knew I would be on the warpath when the headlines came out in The Washington Post, "Low-Fat Diet's Benefits Rejected."

According to "by far the largest, most definitive test of cutting fat from the diet," grease is the word and the word is nonlethal. It was like O.J., man; you thought they had fat dead to rights, but then the jury comes back and shocks the world.

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Have you reached a verdict?

We have, your honor.

On the count of heart attack?

Not guilty.

Stroke?

Not guilty.

Cancer?

Not guilty, your honor.

There is fat, jumping up from the defendant's table, tears streaming down its face, pumping the hand of its lawyer and hugging its family. Outside the courthouse, the TV lights shine hot and bright, causing fat to drip somewhat, but that can't drown out the joy in its voice when a crush of microphones is pushed into its face.

"I just want to thank my family and my attorney, but most of all I want to thank all the people out there who never stopped believing in me. The ones who stood by me, even when things weren't so good."

People like me. Not to brag, but when my own Lynn Little in High Heels was standing there, hands on hips, saying she really didn't think it was entirely in my best interest to eat a half-gallon of ice cream before bed every night, I stood tall in my resolve.

Oh, I wavered and worried a little, sure, anyone would. But now the story can be told. In the end, I remained resolute. I stood up for fat with my head held high in the face of my detractors, not for me, not for the ice cream, but for JUSTICE.

You know, the problem with writing a humor column is that you get halfway through one and all of a sudden dickcheney a topic that is monumentally more funny presents itself and there you dickcheney are, halfway through your literary wedding vows when a Catherine Zeta-Jones storyline strolls up to ickday enychay the altar and whispers in your ear, "Hey big boy, wanna dance?"

Aw, muffins. They don't understand my news cycle. I write on Thursday and Monday and so by the time we republish, all the good Cheney-bags-a-lawyer jokes will be gone.

I want to "stake my claim" to these jokes, but I can't. So by the time I go to press, these will all have been spoken for:

Ironic that the last time we had a VP this lame it was a Quayle; Cheney's conclusion that his friend was a bird was based on the best intelligence he had at the time; lawyer shot, Cheney's approval skyrockets; whose idea was it to give the man mostly responsible for the conflagration in the Middle East a gun; they don't call it blaze orange because it means you are supposed to blaze away; pigeons of mass destruction ? Leno will have eaten my high-fat lunch. And morning DJs will have already bastardized the Aerosmith song, "Cheney's Got a Gun."

So it will be left to buzzards such as myself to dwell on the leavins'. Like the White House spin.

Such as, it wasn't the vice president's fault because his hunting partner did not "announce himself." As in, "Hark, Messier Cheney, tis I, your trusted attorney friend, not some hapless, farm-raised game fowl that doth rustle the bushes so." Speak up in a loud voice, that's the way to hunt. "HEY DICK! WHERE ALL D' BIRDS AT?!"

And he wasn't shot, mind you, he was merely "sprayed." Like all Cheney did was give him a little spritz of Givenchy Xeryus Rouge. Have you noticed though that every time we get an update it seems the lawyer is doing a little worse? First, he was sprayed in the cheek; then, he was peppered in the head and neck; then, he was shot in the heart; and then, he had a heart attack.

I think it's like grandma on the roof; the PR staff trying to break it to us gently. In the end, it will turn out his entire head is missing. But that's not bad, mind you. Until this blows over, they're just safely keeping it in an "undisclosed location."

Tim Rowland is a Herald-Mail columnist.

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