Dear
Weight-Busters-Club,
I
just wanted to share with you how much your program of diet and
exercise has dramatically changed me and my wife. You see, it
was one month ago and we happened to catch your infomercial on
the late, late show. Neither of us could sleep, so we did what
we always used to do when we couldn't sleep: we got ourselves
two large bowls of raspberry ripple ice-cream, climbed back into
our queen-sized bed and turned the old telly on.
As
we sat there spooning generous quantities of that sweet cold delight
into our eager mouths we watched on in interest as your posh sounding
announcer asked the questions, and please allow me to quote here,
if you don't mind.
Are
you a fatty? Do people, as you waddle down the street, point and
call you lard arse?Do you have to shop at the extra large clothing
store? Do you spend more money on junk food each month than you
do on rent? If your answer is a 'yes' to any of those questions,
do I have a program for you! Please allow me to introduce to you
the revolutionarily new weight loss system for all of you generously
proportioned big boned Brits… The-Weight-Busters-Club. W.B.C
has put together an incredibly low price for the first part of
the ten part course… just for you. In just thirty days you
will lose up to fourteen pounds guaranteed.
I
don't know if it was the very dapper spokesman you had hired that
sparked something inside my wife, or if she experienced a self-defining
epiphany, or perhaps even down to the fact that she had completed
her large bowl of ice-cream in less than three minutes… A
new personal best—But she asked me to pass her the mobile.
As I watched on in amazement she dialed your toll free number.
It
was three days later that the postman delivered the box. Somehow
he found the Weight-Busters-Club logo rather amusing as I answered
the door in my Y-front shorts and string vest. I am not used to
getting mail that I have to sign for, after all, and I do rather
like being comfortable when I am at home.
Well,
my wife raced from the kitchen where she had been preparing her
speciality—deep-fried steak and kidney pies… It is the
lard that gives it that lovely flavor, you know. Then she ripped
the box open with vigor and excitement I had not seen since our
wedding day… when she saw the size of our yummy four-tiered
chocolate cake.
Well,
to cut to the chase, the last three and a half weeks, my life
has completely changed. You see, for breakfast, before I went
off to my prestigious job as floor foreman at the paperclip factory,
my wife always made a delicious traditional fry up, the classic
and infamous full Monty, so to speak: bacon, sausage, blood pudding,
fried eggs, fried mushroom, fried bread, baked beans, and we,
each and every morning, sat together and ate. But ever since the
day after that darn box arrived and she started the W.B.C. program,
all that lovely traditional diet changed. Yes sir, the very next
morning I got served a modest-sized bowl of muesli… It wasn't
even served with gold top, full cream milk. No, apparently the
unsavory stuff she drizzled over the rabbit food was a soy product—disgusting,
if you ask me. It might be considered food on the continent or
with all those wackos in America… but certainly not
here in the good old United Kingdom.
Later
that same fateful day, at noon, I eagerly opened my lunch pail.
As you might imagine, my stomach was gurgling and complaining
as loudly and with all the muster it could rustle up after the
terrible excuse for breakfast it had been forced to endure—which,
judging from the looks of my work colleagues, must have been quite
substantial. Now typically inside there would have been my usual
double-decker cheese and onion sandwich, adorned with lavish amounts
of pickle, two bags of spicy chicken curried crisps, a packet
of jammie dodgers, three homemade pickled onions and a can of
Iron Brew. But guess what I discovered that day…Well, let
me tell you… There was a rather limp green salad, with a
few radishes, tomatoes, celery sticks, and some strange vegetable
I had never before seen in my life with a bottle proclaiming its
peculiarly colored contents to be a low fat dressing, and a bottle
of Perrier water. I was, as I am sure you can tell, not amused.
That
evening when I arrived home, I found to my further dismay that
our usual Wednesday night lasagna followed by a red currant cheesecake
the wife makes had been replaced. In its place was a reduced carbohydrate
wheat pasta tossed in what I can only guess to be a low fat, low
calorie, and low flavor tomato sauce.
My
wife didn't seem undeterred, in fact, far from it! To my amazement,
she gaily chatted about the whole new wardrobe she was going to
have to require after the weight effortlessly begins to fall off
as she gently nibbled on her meal. Then she mentioned that it
would be a wonderful time for us to take that Mediterranean cruise
that she always dreamed of…
And
so this went on and on, and then on some more for three and half
agonizingly long weeks…
I
am writing this to tell you that my wife, as of today, finally
met her ideal weight goal, and I know for a fact that her weight
will continue to drop.
For,
you see, this very morning over a glass of prune juice and some
flax breakfast cereal, something inside of my meat-deprived brain
finally snapped. For, you see, this very morning as my wife perused
her cruise brochures, she failed to notice that I had picked up
the electric carving knife… The very one that was once used
for carving the copious amounts of roast beasts that we not so
long ago regularly consumed—
"I
can't read the rest of the letter to you…" the troubled
police officer said. "But suffice to say, after she had been
reported missing by her employer, I went directly to the home
of Mr. and Mrs. Higginbottom. I arrived to find the front door
open, so after announcing who I was, I cautiously entered.
"It
was upstairs where I finally found them… Mr. Archibald Higginbottom
was sitting completely naked in the bathtub, joyfully putting
something that appeared disturbingly like raw meat into his contorted
mouth.
"He
smiled to me as I entered and pointed to his wife's body perched
awkwardly on the scale. No head, mind you, just the body.
"'She
finally is at her ideal weight,'" he blabbered. "'She
has lost over a stone…'"
"It
was then I saw it… Between his flabby pasty thighs in the
bathtub, his wife's head—with a flabbergasted look now permanently
etched on it."
Inspector
Heath smiled at his wife standing at the door to his office.
"Another
one for the book, eh?" she said, shaking her head in a combination
of disgust and bemusement.
Inspector
Heath simply took another large bite from his ham sandwich—as
a globule of mustard squirted in an apparent desperate bid for
freedom from it and landed onto the front of his white shirt—and
nodded.
The end.
