Tummy Trouble

Have Gut — Will Travel or Go West, Young Mike or Darth Vader, My Ass
Chapter 7

Email is buzzing today. It so happens my travelogue is attracting interest. Folks want to know more about my paunch. Several requested a blowup, yet I don't see how that is quite necessary. I am, however, delighted to learn I'm such an enthralling spokesperson for the scenic Old West.

Alright, first a disclaimer: In this OK Corral photo enlargement, objects may be hungrier than they appear.

As with my hair, I'm also sporting my first zany stomach of the trip. Collect the whole series. I call this one: "What Happened?"

When this pot shot was taken, I weighed 190 pounds, wet. That's another story. I'll never chug a Big Gulp and sneeze again.

As I write this entry, I've ballooned another five percent. The good news: I'm 200 pounds of chewy, nougat center.

I may have to curtail Happy Hours at the all-you-can-eat Mars Bars Bar.

And might I interject, I think it's rude -- and redundant -- for people to snicker when I'm Snickers snockered.

*sigh*

And all these young cameras today! With their wild technology and tight chips. Look at 'em, tiny, very tiny. You can't hide behind these young punk cameras anymore. I need one of those humongous "King Kong" cameras from the '30s with the gigantic flashbulb attachment. Those things were two-fisted, hernia-inducing huge! I could hide my flab behind a "King Kong" camera for sure. And a bottle of Pert and some thumbtacks to fix my Ed Grimley hair. There'd be plenty of room to stash away that stuff, maybe a KitKat. Life would be swell. Delicious.

Young punks.

Next: Chapter 8 | Rewind to Chapter 1

Photo copyright ©2003-2004 Donna Durrett. All rights reserved.