What Goes Through Your Head Every Time You Hear About Someone’s New Fad Diet


No. Please proceed. Go ahead, get up on that soapbox and spout unsolicited advice for the next eight minutes. The only reason any of us came out tonight was to be nagged.

There it is. I knew it. It’s almost always a Latin prefix haphazardly slapped onto some buzzword.

I don’t think he’s stopped to breathe.

Pretty sure this is still just one long, run-on sentence about all of the non-quantifiable benefits he’s accredited to this diet. Chakras, energy vortexes, enlightenment audits—this feels like a seminar for a garbage religion or pyramid scheme.

No, just stop. You’re still the same un-dateable deadbeat with awful teeth I knew a month ago. It’s not accurate to christen this a lifestyle change. Sure, you’re a little smugger today. You’re more conceited and I hate you more than usual. Though at your essence you’re still the guy who inexplicably loves Andy Dick and who once barfed on a police horse.

Lifestyle change? That’s rich. Say a traveling magician starts chewing gum everyday, has he really changed his lifestyle? He’s still a magician. He’s still constantly living in hotel rooms and disappointing his parents. He remains unchanged in the big picture.

By their nature, lifestyle changes are sweeping. Career waitresses going back to night school to earn their nursing degrees. Ministers giving up the church and devoting their lives to winning American Idol. Business moguls suffering through a midlife crisis, liquidating their 401ks, and funding cupcake shops exclusively for the obese. Please, just trotting out some health-food-brand all-natural goo that smells like hot sewage to spread on rice cakes for lunch instead of a sandwich is not a lifestyle change.

His torrent of ill-researched figures won’t stop. I don’t know science but I have an ear for Internet “facts.”

He’s my friend, yes, but if an un-medicated bi-polar person inexplicably socked him in the mouth right now I don’t think I’d mind.

Now he’s trolling for validation. He spent $14.95 on some paperback rag Dr. Oz recommended and now he wants to quell that nagging doubt that’s telling him he wasted his money.

Frustration is looming and his voice raises an octave.

His cadence quickens and I smile. I’m prepping an inquisition. It needs to be dismissive, truly a less direct and more fun way of saying “I listened and still didn’t take anything you said seriously.”

Sure, he can say this lecture came from a place of concern, concern over my health and Hot Pocket fetish. Deep down we both know this was merely a way for him to assert that he’s more conscientious and therefore better than the rest of us.

That can work.

Asking if this diet will mean that I can only orgasm in natural light, that’ll play too.

Or I’ll inquire if my voting Third Party in one of the last three elections disqualifies me from participating.

Something about ISIS, maybe.

Yeah, I think we’ll be good.

“Um, sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but to do this diet do I have to be racist?”

It’s like an interception. We’re all running the other way now.

The entire conversation’s pivoted away from his fad diet and has moved on to him defending himself on why he’s only thrown up on black police horses and during Octavia Spencer’s Oscar acceptance.

P.S. Don’t talk about your fad diet. No one fucking cares. No one.