It's good to be a man at Christmas

Sometimes food is not such a good thing. Especially not when quality meets quantity and want meets need in a collision of wills only to be matched by the ensuing indigestion.

For the past two weeks, I have consumed enough calories to feed an entire family in Bangladesh for several years. While I admit that the eating is sparse in Bangladesh by most reports (that rice is low-fat stuff, you know), I still have consumed more than my share of the global caloric intake average (GCIA). While many of you may not have heard of the GCIA (especially since I just made it up a few seconds ago), it is a very important international standard.

Given that the standard mathematical equation for figuring gross caloric intake (X*F+M=FAT-W, with X standing for excess, F standing for food, M standing for mouth and W standing for waste); I figure that I must have put on at least 37 pounds in two days. However, I found my calculations to be flawed soon afterwards, when I dosed myself with one-too-many teaspoons full of milk of magnesia.

In continuing to figure scientifically, I reasoned that the quality of foods consumed is usually not under consideration and that pure calories are a necessity that help our bodies produce energy. Given that fact, I should have been ready to row a small boat around the earth seven times. That is when my Socratic method reached a paradox, given that consuming too many calories does not necessarily produce too much energy as might be supposed by the less experienced scientist.

Case in point: I ate a large meal on Sunday and then almost immediately fell into a comatose-like state soon after.

Yes, it's true. I was drooling on my chin, head turned in the general direction of the television, as visions of antacids danced in my head like the sugarplums of lore.

I knew something was amiss when I awoke and found out that the blue-jean fairy had visited me in my sleep and had tapped my pants with her magic wand. Although a third cousin, twice removed, of the famous tooth fairy, this wicked little gal makes our clothes shrink while we sleep.

I knew it couldn't have anything to do with the three servings of mashed potatoes and gravy I ate earlier, since that had to have been made using low-fat condensed milk, given the health conscious nature of my wonderful family.

We make large chocolate cakes, but it's alright because we make the batter with one-percent milk. We also devour huge quantities of any snack that purports to be "Low Cholesterol" or "LOWER FAT than regular Twinkies." With that having been said, it should help you to realize the faults in your own family. Just remember, it's not how much you eat, it's how often.

I decided to do a bit better on Christmas Day. Rather than eating all day long, I opted for a more sane approach. I fed myself with one hand instead of two this time and chose only one kind of bread and no desert. This seemed like a logical role for me to take on. I was very proud of myself, when I stood to gather plates around the table, I noticed that there were only two other people finished eating.

I am afraid that was my downfall. I couldn't very well give up my plate before everyone else had barely found their way through the main course, could I? Therefore, I deduced that I must have missed the appetizers and followed the other three men who had finished their plates, with a zombie-like glaze in our eyes, back toward the Shangri-la of dead pigs and turkeys. Perhaps happiness is just on the other side of that last stuffing ball, after all.

Soon after, I found myself back at the table with females who were still apparently munching on their first plate of food. I looked at them with a scoff as they picked over their food with a casually feigned, nonchalant disinterest. Women just know how to eat, I thought as I crammed my jowls full of a concoction of cranberry Jell-O, potato salad and coleslaw. They can down three or four large adult servings and appear to only have eaten ‘a smidgen of everything.' Men, on the other hand, usually end up with gravy on their eyelids and several spots of misplaced food on or about their trousers. Then I realized the truth about the universe: Men don't have to worry about donning control top panty hose, we don't put on uncomfortable clothes just to look pretty, we don't get tacky ceramic things or household appliances for presents and we don't have to pussy-foot around the dinner table when we'd rather eat like a pack of wild dogs. Yes, it's still good to be a man, especially here at Christmas.

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