What’s the fun of participating in a game, and perhaps winning, but your reward… is an apple. Woo hoo.

So I suggested bobbing for bacon. “That’s disgusting, who would want water-logged bacon?” “Well,” I said, still off the top of my head, “you put it in a ziplock bag, filled with some air, keeps the bacon dry, and buoyant enough to still bob for.”

I haven’t tried it, and it was a silly idea, but the more I think of it, the more I like the idea. I handed out actual toast at my wedding as a wedding toast, so maybe I’ll push forward with this. I don’t know if the ziplocks would really work, probably too easy to get hold of, need something with the right difficulty level.

How about a hollowed-out wax apple, with bacon inside? You think you’re getting a piece of fruit, but it’s actually bacon! That’s a reward.

And I’m okay with it. I can eat healthy, as long as someone else cooks it for me. I even took a stab at healthy cooking myself, while my wife was sick. Garlic and onion Turkey burgers in pita pockets with red onions and provolone cheese. Delicious.

We’re spending less on groceries, losing weight, and feeling better.

But.

But I can’t say I don’t miss the days of consuming an entire pan of brownies, or the skyscraper-sized Mud Pie at the Elephant Bar.

Oh, the pizza at Round Table, which is all I’d eat. The Country Fried steak at Chili’s. I would gorge on the Cheddar Bay biscuits at Red Lobster. Oh, so many great tasting but heart-killing foods.

So we won’t go crazy. We won’t say we can’t ever have the stuff we used to eat.

I believe in moderation, but there’s no sense going overboard about it.

So for our daughter’s half-birthday, we went out for lunch and Ate Bad, including a Cheesecake/Chocolate Torte for dessert that was scrumptious.

And therefore, I propose a new Holiday: Gluttony Day.

See, we’re not on a diet. This is just the way we are going to live from now on. And what will keep us on this regimen will be the light at the end of the tunnel:

Gluttony Day. Every February 29th.

Once every four years, we can eat whatever we want, as much as we want.

I’m taking the day off work. We will probably spend several nights making lists of our most lusted-after foods, and planning the most efficient way to eat as much as we can from as many different food genres as we can.

After all there’s no sense just shoveling a whole large thick crust pepperoni and sausage from Round Table down one’s gullet and being too full for chocolate lasagna afterwards. There’s no style in that anyway.

Oh yes: this is a single day. That means no leftovers. Nothing can be saved to eat the next day or week. One day of foodbauchery, and then back to everyday healthy eating.

That will save money, and save our waistlines and resolve as well.

So we shall plan. And when the 29th comes, we shall reign. For a day, we shall be Kings and Queens, and consume the world.

And then it’s back to nourishing garbanzo bean soup.

My father is the ultimate example of dental terror. He didn’t go to the dentist once for 15 years.

Of course, that just puts off the torment. Eventually, it’s go to the dentist, or lose your teeth, or possibly die from infection.

My mother dragged him off to get worked on, kicking, screaming, and gouging all the way. It was hideously expensive as well as excruciating, but at least the dentist, Dr. Sheridan, was a pleasant fellow, and the nitrous oxide flowed freely.

One day after his dental health had somewhat improved, he needed to go in to have a crown replaced or something. He always joked around when nervous.

“I would have just done it myself with a pair of pliers and some superglue, but I hadn’t seen you for a while and wanted to stop in and say hi,” he said.

Dr. Sheridan just stared at him, for a moment, picked up his tray of tools, and left the room. He returned a minute later with a new tray, set it down, and walked out.

On the tray were a pair of pliers and a package of super glue.

After a few minutes he returned. “Still didn’t want to do it yourself?” he asked.

“I would have,” replied my father, “but I couldn’t open the package of glue.”

“That’s why I spent those years in dental school,” the doctor deadpanned. “To learn how to open the superglue.”

He also has a special tray of rusty dental tools he sometimes sets out as a joke. At least I hope it’s a joke.

Anyway, I did have a thought today while reading a message board with people talking about scary movie clichés:

Psst. It is safe to check out noises in the basement at night with your flashlight, unless you go down there in nothing but your underwear. That is when the psycho will get you every time.

Oh, and check for background music. If you hear creepy background music run away. Run AWAY!

I thought, you know how they have emergency lights? They have a battery, and when the power goes out, they light up the joint? Get some emergency background music.

If the light on the basement stairs goes out, it’ll automatically play eerie music to alert you to the danger.

Wife: Uh–

Me: Crib death.

Wife: Aw, that’s sad.

Me: Well, you can always buy a new crib.

Wife: Imagine, walking into the nursery and finding your baby in a dead crib.

Every month, for years, and extra trips on holidays and his birthday. She’ll grow to love her poor old great-uncle.

Then, when she’s about 13, I’ll tell her the truth: that I have no idea who the guy is that’s buried under there, that I made up all the stories or cribbed them from the 40’s pulps, and that I don’t even like caramel apples.

And when, amidst her tears, she demands to know why, I’ll make up something about how it really had a noble purpose or taught a good lesson, in an attempt to weasel out of it.

Okay. I would never do this. But wow, isn’t it a sick mind that even thinks of things like this?