Poodles
In my estimation, the weight loss plan is going extremely well. Even with taking a couple of days off from exercising due to cleaning out the old apartment over the weekend, I’m still at above a kilo per week. I mainly thank the insane weight result of Saturday paired with consistently good eating decisions. Thus far, though I have very much wanted a delicious hamburger. It would probably be wise to give into that temptation in a controlled fashion before I go completely bonkers and end up eating a plate of fries, a cheeseburger, a fried appetizer, and with a nice pint of the black stuff.
But enough yammering. The chart for this week looks sort of like this:
-1.06 kg/week with a daily calorie shortfall of 1361 kcal
The Poodle
My mother-in-law got a tiny poodle recently. He can only muster less than half of the mass of my housecat. Their old (female) dog was named Belle, so this (male) dog has been christened Beau. If you speak French, you’ll probably find this about as humorous as I do. I tried (in vain unfortunately) to convince them to name it Praline, but my suggestion was nothing more than a tinkling cymbal or a sounding brass. “Praline”, for those of you keeping score at home, is actually a beautiful double entendre with a dash of sexual innuendo. Not content with just being the moniker for a sugary treat, “praline” can also be used a slang term for the clitoris. Think about that the next time you’re eating delicious premium ice cream.
Little Beau is extraordinarily unlucky, I hear. He has apparently been coerced into a terrible form of torture known as the “sporting cut” which Allyson appropriately described as a “gay poodle cut except no balls on it’s legs”—oddly appropriate when you figure exactly how emasculated this dog is. If I were this dog, I would pray for death hourly. And when God finally answered my prayer—whether through genuine concern or callous indifference—I would bite him squarely in the metaphysical nuts.