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Honey, The Dog Ate Your Diet Plan

The wife was on a diet that guaranteed a loss of 3kg a week and I was tempted to join her.

What with the belly obscuring my shoelaces and making tying them more difficult than painting an elephant’s toenails.

I did the math. If I religiously stayed on this diet for eight months I could lose around 96 kg and my weight would be around 24kg.

I salivated at the prospect. This would mean no more snide remarks from colleagues about my one pack, a transformation from waddling to a sprightly walk and fewer bills and admonishes from the doctor.

I perused the diet plan. It involved eating a lot of greenies, fish and drinking lots of water. There was no mention of beef. I checked again- this time with more scrutiny. There was none. No mention of beef whatsoever. There seems to be a silent rule at Diet School not to include beef in almost every type of diet.

I wondered whether these diets were really designed for Africa-more precisely whether they were designed for African men.

My idea of losing weight has always been simple. Eat less fatty food, exercise more and pay your government to put you in an antigravity chamber or for a stay on the moon.

I had always given diet plans a wide berth. With this diet it looked like things were not going to change. I would wait until they included beef in the curriculum at Diet School.Then I would hopefully enrol.

However, there was a positive to this. If my wife stuck to this she could reach a weight of zero within six months and I could be completely rid of her!

The day kicked off in the worst possible way, however. The wretched dog knocked down a bottle of expensive whisky, ran laps around the house, rolled across every inch of my wife’s  new carpet and left its bum

signature on my bean bag.

I didn’t know what was wrong with this dog. I had taken him for obedience training, I learnt how to discipline him but he had not helped add to my swag. To add insult to very open wounds it had torn and eaten up the diet plan. I knew World War III was just about to erupt.

I tried my best to salvage the situation. I wasn’t too sure which of the four to attend to first: the carpet, the bean bag, the whisky or the diet plan. I didn’t have enough money to replace the whisky but I knew I could hide that for now. With the vacuum cleaner broken I knew the carpet had to be explained off with the dog taking a large chunk of the blame. Of the two remaining mishaps I decided the diet plan was the more urgent.


However, for someone who was never proficient at jigsaw puzzles piecing together a dog-torn diet plan is like flossing a cat’s teeth and expecting it to tell you its favourite mouse dish. With missing pieces it was an even more futile exercise.

Before I could take care of business I heard my wife’s car creaking into the driveway. Ultimately it was a grim wife who arrived to a smelly living room, a doghair-covered carpet and a diet plan shredded to pieces. And of course a bewildered husband with a sheepish look that could shame the entire Three Stooges set. World War III was just about to begin.

I had hoped to laze around and take it easy at home but some angel from hell had blessed me with a mongrel intent on straining my marriage. Alas!

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