So I quit smoking. No, no — please hold your applause until the end.
I’ve always been a pretty healthy guy. I work out. I don’t eat a lot of sugar, salt or arsenic. I only drink on weekends, but I always use that time productively by getting really drunk and designated driving. I don’t always use a condom when I’m treating myself to a prostitute, but I always ask if they have any on them. (If they don’t, it means they’re clean.)
So, I guess it made sense to quit smoking. I mean, why would I otherwise put in all that other effort to stay healthy?
Ah, but then I did some reading. Despite this latest endeavor, I’m still not healthy.
I rarely use sunscreen, so now I’m gonna get cancer anyway. Fortunately, it’s cancer I can just peel off and eat. But even if I don’t get cancer, I’m going to get wrinkles. Who knows when or where, but they’re there — somewhere under my skin — waiting to ruin my chances with some cheerleader or naughty librarian down the road.
On top of that, I use a cell phone. I didn’t want to, but my Sports Illustrated football phone didn’t have speed dial and I’m horrible about remembering my drug dealer’s digits. So that’s more cancer, only in my brain. I could be driving a bus full of orphans along a cliff one day, and then — BOOM! — the tumor eats my driving lobe (the part that survived all that drinking) and sends us over the edge.
Well, I guess the orphans will finally get to meet their dead parents. Well, except for the ones that nobody loved and were abandoned. Still, one out of fifty ain’t bad.
Of course, there’s also caffeine.
I’m saying I drink a lot of caffeine, but I did bring my own coffee pot to work because everyone else kept bitching about no coffee. I also make people nervous when they pass my desk because I’m jumpy. Well, jumpy and trigger-happy.
Speaking of trigger-happy, I also have guns. Lots of them. Did you know that the mere presence of a gun in the home increases the likelihood of gunshot-inflicted suicide? Makes sense to me. You use the right tools for the right job. You can use a hammer to pound a screw into the wall, but why would you do that when you have a screwdriver?
Oh, I’m getting married. It doesn’t sound unhealthy, but think again. More to the point, think about the vow: “’til death do us part.” How’s that for ominous? They even left the “un” off of “until.” So, if all goes according to plan, one of us will outlive the other. If foul play is suspected, then one of us is the most likely culprit.
It’s OK, readers: I sleep with a machete under my pillow. Julie doesn’t keep any weapons under hers. Hello, nursing home singles!
Here’s a list of things I do just because I was told not to:
- Run with scissors.
- Dive into the shallow end of the kiddie pool after eating a big bowl of corned beef hash.
- Perform repairs on household electronics while bathing.
- Reach into the lawnmower if it sounds like it’s “running funny.”
- Text-message while driving.
- Swallow after two chews or less.
- Tame lions.
As if all that wasn’t bad enough, I don’t eat breakfast. I used to, back in college, but that’s because I was usually too drunk to eat dinner. No, I start every work day with a blood sugar deficit. Driving in rush hour traffic, making important decisions at work, driving to lunch — all while I’m kind of loopy. If I were given the SATs, I would totally blow them, condemning me to four more years at a lesser college.
But, I quit smoking. So I got that going for me.
(Cue applause.)
(Applause)