Detox or Die Trying

My body is a temple that each summer is desecrated by Mr. Sam Adams; his London buddy, Mr. Gordon; and assorted hangers-on. Thus, with a chill in the air signaling the end of elastic-waistband shorts, I knew it was time for something radical.

Detox.

Not Betty Ford (that would be "rehab" for those scorin' at home), but a detox diet. Get all the poisons out of the ol' system, reinvigorate the ol' noodle and recover all the randomly dropped "d's" and "g's" in my writin'. Maybe I'll even lose a few pounds and be worthy of the post-Jenny Craig Valerie Bertinelli. Rrrrowl.

Someone I trust recommended a best-selling three-week regime. This person lived to tell, so it must be a winner.

Then I read the detox details.

People, be leery of a 200-page book in which 126 pages are testimonies from Twinkie-stuffed bozos. Fred flippin' Flintstone, I didn't pay $24.95 (plus tax in you liberal, unpatriotic, unreal-American states) to hear about your problems!

Next, be suspicious of chapters dedicated solely to explaining why enemas are your best friend. Sorry, but coffee only enters this body through one portal and, pal, it is on a different end of the digestive system.

Then, worry if you need to buy a warehouse of supplements to fill the nutritional gaps caused by the cleansing. (Note: To save money, most of the supplement ingredients can be scraped off the floor of your local nursery. Also, did you know aloe vera leaves your skin soft and supple when you apply it externally and your intestines' smooth and silky when you consume it? Consider yourself educated.)

The actual detox instructions came down to this: eat only vegetables, especially dark leafy greens, but only after you boil them beyond recognition, toss most of the nutrient-filled water, then stick the remnants in a $500 juicer that renders them completely unrecognizable and tasteless.

(Oh, there was also a warning that detox-ers with unresolved "issues" in their lives may experience suicidal thoughts and bouts of unexplained public nudity. But this is just "a hiccup in the healing process," so don't panic.)

Sounds fun -- let's go!

Day 1: Not bad. You eat every two hours. By "eat," I mean you drink quarts of enzyme concoctions and herbal teas. All these things all fruit flavored, yet a nice crisp Macintosh violates the detox. Go figure.

Day 2: I'm peeing every two hours. Dear Lord, am I pregnant?

Day 3: Lost 4 pounds. Still, chamomile tea tastes like ass. And not Victoria's Secret quality, either.

Day 4: Neither light-headed nor dizzy today. I feel like I lost an old friend. I eye the stale box of donuts in the trash. Hmmm …

Day 5: Down 6 pounds. I make "cleansing soup." Gallons of vegetables and seasonings later, mmm, it tastes just like ... water.

Day 6: Since I no longer chew anything, I give up brushing and flossing. Bonus!

Day 7: Dear God, no more [radio edit] herbal tea. They all [censored] SUCK! SUCK MY [digitally altered] MOTHERHUMPING [bleeeeeeeep]!!

Day 8: Down 9 pounds. I haven't gone this long without alcohol since high school. I don't seem to have the DTs. Confirmation that I'm not an alcoholic.

Day 9: I'm craving a cigarette, though I haven't smoked in eons. Is detoxing like sex? Assuming sex is like "vegetable" juice, distilled water and gallons of [redacted] herbal [cuckoo] tea.

Day 10: Seeing the 180s again! This is because my body is free of all heavy metals, insecticides and other poisons. Or because I'm consuming only 348 calories a day.

Day 11: The book's last chapter warns about coming off detox too soon. Could send my body into fatal shock. Now that's incentive.

Day 12: Dropped 13 pounds. It's not that I miss food. I just miss flavor. Any flavor. Except [deleted] herbal ass tea flavor.

Day 13: Screw it. Going for a latte and a maple nut scone. Life's too [buuuzz] short to be thin, healthy and miserable.

Day 14: Went to Humor-Blogs.com and fattened up my rankings with many a smiley face.