Wienie

I try. I try, but I'm a weak man. Almost every morning as I walk my dogs around the block, I think to myself that this is going to be the day I start eating right. I'm not going to let that skinny bastard tempt me again today. The problem is that I live with a food pusher. Not just any food pusher, but a hundred pound lightweight who eats anything he wants, and never, ever gains weight.

"Alan, I'm making some cocktail wienie wraps. Do you want some?"
"No Mark. I'm not hungry, thank you."

I'm trying to be good. I know those things are full of nitrates and calories. Besides, I just ate breakfast two hours ago. I am not hungry. I continue to watch my football game and try to ignore the aroma wafting in from the kitchen. At some point my mind goes numb and my body goes on autopilot. I don't even remember getting up out of the chair, yet I suddenly find myself standing in the kitchen watching Mark pull a sheet of little wienies out of the oven. I know I shouldn't be there, but when I see Mark mixing up a batch of honey mustard in a little bowl, I succumb. Mmmm... little wieners dipped in honey mustard. Add a large glass of Cherry Diet Coke, and before I know it I am sitting back in front of the television with a dozen on a plate. For five minutes I sit there stuffing my face, occasionally tossing Chandler a small bit of wiener just to get him to stop drooling on my leg. When the dish is empty, reality comes rushing back to my brain. I did it again, I gave in to Mark and his never ending conveyer belt of food. In my mouth is the aftertaste of too much honey mustard, various cow bits, and a list of chemicals too long to list here. I disgust myself, and I know that there is only one cure for this food fetish. Kill Mark. Either that, or grow a pair and just say no. I could make it my New Years resolution. No, not killing Mark, but learning to say no. That should last until say, noon tomorrow.