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Jewish World Review Nov. 9, 2006 / 17 Mar-Cheshvan , 5767 Finding the fat is a heavy job By Lori Borgman
http://www.JewishWorldReview.com |
It was dusk when I found the private investigator who had been doing the leg work on the trans fat case. He was catching his breath at his desk in a basement cubicle. "You're not an easy guy to find," I said. "I don't know how many Taco Bells, McDonalds and Long John Silvers I've been to today." "Ma'am, my work is never done, at least not as long as trans fat lurks on the streets, in the barrios and in the blood vessels of my fellow Americans." "So you do this out of love for your fellow man, is that it? By the way, you're looking a little plump if you don't mind me saying." "Of course I do it out of love. Why else would I want to dictate to my fellow man every bite he puts in his mouth. As for my weight, you'd be wearing a 42 waist if you were eating coconut shrimp, chicken strips and bloomin' onions all day, too." He yanked open his bottom desk drawer and removed a silver flask. He pulled a long swig then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Little Jim Beam to ease the tension?" I asked. "No, Starbucks. House blend. Rumors at HQ are that caffeine is next on the hit list. Once we finish off the trans fat, we're going for your coffees, colas and black teas. But until it's official ..." He took another swig. He glanced around nervously, wedged the stopper into place and tossed the flask back in the drawer. "I was wondering if you could give me any clue as to how far this trans fat investigation will go?" I asked. "Tomorrow I head to Savannah," he said, puffing his chest. "Ever heard of one Paula Deen?" "I love Paula Deen. She's adorable." "Yeah, well Miss Adorable made fried biscuits on television last week." He shoved a leather bound notebook across the desk. I flipped it open to a picture of Paula Deen holding a basket of hush puppies. It said, "WANTED felonious trans fat violations in two restaurants, three states and the Food Network. There were others as well, the Keebler Elves, Entenmann's and Little Debbie. I shuddered and closed the book. "After trans fat, then what?" "That's classified," he smirked. I tipped my open handbag in his direction to reveal a box of Frango mints. "Every man has his price," I said. He grabbed the chocolates. "You didn't hear it from me, but you know that little tram in Pennsylvania that takes you on a tour of how Hershey's chocolate kisses are made? A year from now that will be a tour on growing hydroponic tomatoes." "And after that?" He ripped into the second layer of chocolates. "After chocolate we're targeting white sugar. It's gonna be so bad Hawaii may secede from the union. From there we're moving to salt. That little gal on the blue box isn't going to need that umbrella much longer." "Has HQ ever considered that thinking for adults who should learn to think for themselves creates a class of perpetual children? Some nights I don't sleep enough. Is the government going to mandate a bedtime? What about the freedom to exercise our own wills?" "Exercise," he scoffed. "Good pun, but it's too late and we're too fat." He stood up, grabbed his coat and lumbered down the corridor, a square of Krispy Kreme tissue paper stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
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JWR contributor Lori Borgman is the author of , most recently, "Pass the Faith, Please" (Click HERE to purchase. Sales help fund JWR.) and I Was a Better Mother Before I Had Kids To comment, please click here. To visit her website click here.
© 2006, Lori Borgman
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