I hate New Year’s Resolutions.
Invariably the new year brings a sense of doom for it always prompts for a resolution. Generally the resolution is one of bettering oneself which always implies that the new year has already judged you before it has begun and labelled you as lacking. Therefore with each year it is with great trepidation I commit to my will the intended rectification of a communally agreed vice or error of my being. The year of 2010 is to be no exception.
Normally there is a guilt before I even begin, for in truth I know there is no real commitment to my oath, and if I happen to tell no-one about it there is even less reason for me to see it through to it’s torturous end. Indeed every proclamation of I will no longer scratch my arse in public; I will no longer flick snot at people I don’t like; I will no longer lick public elevator buttons, or even I will cease to cause political rifts between extra terrestrial nations has inevitably met with failure. The promise for this year has perhaps more chance of success though, even if the declaration is somewhat clichéd; I will this year endeavour to lose weight.
This is an incredibly boring resolution of course, but there are pressing needs to see this to fruition. There are the standard reasons for losing weight, being fundamentally for health or to prevent small children from being afraid you might kill them if you fell on them. These reasons though are not of real consequence to me. My reasons are far more complex but equally far more appalling.
It is with increasing alarm that I can no longer pretend, even when looking in a circus distortion mirror, that my chest looks anything like a man’s chest should look. The previous proud flexible pectorals are now nothing but non uniform bulging sacks of jelly. It is with great exasperation that I now have breasts the envy of any A or B cupped women. I have nightmares where hoards of starving babies come to suck the fat from my man chest glands. I do not enjoy my wife’s and daughter’s jokes that they are going shopping to buy me a bra. The words Duff and boob should not be used in the same sentence when describing my anatomy.
This is a revelation that many of you may find disturbing and I daresay have rarely experienced. There is an issue when dealing with the natural requirement to pass a motion of the bowels. The issue is that the dumping of the load can take quite some time. In the time it takes to complete a successful excavation however, the mass of my body has sunk into the toilet seat so as to cut off the circulation to my legs. The problem is thus two fold. Firstly, as I lose the use of my legs the act of wiping becomes a precarious balancing act not dissimilar to a retarded hippopotamus standing on one leg on a reinforced beach ball while juggling live Mexican angora ferrets. The second issue being that leaving the latrine simply becomes a display of pity and disgust as I collapse sprawling out of the door onto the ground. Horrified onlookers almost always make the incorrect assumption that it is the stench I have summoned from the depths of hell that has caused my pathetic demise.
You had me in stitches! licking the elevator buttons was a very visual experience!
If you put as much effort into loosing a bit of weight as you have into this snippet of too much info about your man boobs and your absent belly button, you will be a fat bastard in no time 
)
In some cultures (like mine)…ageing and lookin’ like Fat Albert is seen as a time of dignity and wisdom. In western culture, it’s seen as something you must fight till the bitter end. If we all concentrate on what sort of person we are, we just may become far more interesting people…like you Duff D Moss…hehehehehehahahahaha…damn that was funny!!! Never got the chance to wish you a good Chrissy so… it is good to see ya back and writing…I hope 2010 brings you and your family happy times
Ok weigh in time.
Original BMI = 33.6
31/01/10 BMI = 32.9
Woo Hoo – in the correct direction for once
Hehehe…keep it up Duff…we’re all watching closely 
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