Everybody gets their loins all girded up for January and February, but it is March that is most likely to kick my ass. When it’s 20 degrees with a wind chill of -5 in on February 7th, I can easily say, “Hey, it’s winter. Be a man.” In March, when that evil bastard Zephyr keeps blowing out the little spark Apollo keeps trying to grant, I lose my patience. Honestly, we’ve been doing this since November and I, for one, am ready to smell some mud. In order to protest the lack of spring, I have decided to take up a hungry strike.
I’m already crabby, so why not be hungry? The advantage to this is that it will accelerate the Muffin Top Removal project so that we can expect completion by early summer. I honor the place within where civil disobedience and ripped abs meet. (Does this make me more like Jesus? He liked civil disobedience, and he was ripped. Clock those obliques the next time you look at a crucifix.) But whence the “civ dis” you ask? It’s in the hungry.
To be clear, this is a hungry strike, not a hunger strike. We are not talking about pulling a full-on Gandhi; that would be weird. This is eating less of all the foods I am tired of eating as a protest to the lack of seasonal availableness of the foods I want to eat. Packaged Asian dinners, frozen potatoes, and hearty root vegetable stews are out. Or minimized. Somewhat. Robert P. Ingle will feel the weight of the moral imperative to get the hell on with the growing season already as my love handles diminish right before his eyes. Or the picture of his eyes — and whole face and head, as well as shoulders — posted in the proximity of the west entrance of Swingles. There is a security camera there, so I am sure he will see the tape.
You may scoff, scoffers, but I predict that in the next four to six weeks, we will see a dramatic shift toward favorable conditions for vegetable production in and around the Land of the Suwaree. We all know that Robert P. Ingle controls the predictions and appearance of snow as a means to increase winter profitability. Prediction of snow = no more milk in stores. If he can make snow, he can make not snow. I pledge to stay mildly uncomfortable, slightly lightheaded, and increasingly slim until we get some warm ass weather around here. If I am not ripped by the time it comes, I might protest a little longer about the lack of Chinese takeout at Exit 59.