The Crap We Non-Olympians Eaton July 30th, 2012 at 2:14 pm
Holy balls, you guys! It’s the Olympics again!
Yay! Yay! The Olympics, the Olympics!
The Opening Ceremony!
Hey, y’all, I think Danny Boyle dipped into my stash.
Like, deep into my stash. Look inside there, do I even have any left?
So the summer Olympics have returned and – unlike the winter Olympics, when everybody’s bundled into their Gore-Tex sacks – we get to see every inch of these athletes’ ideal bodies. I mean, this is what these people do for a living: activities that sculpt their physiques into shapes that verge on blasphemy, so closely do they approximate divinity, if “divine” is to be defined as absolute perfection.
Not a single undulation where there shouldn’t be, not an extra ounce to be found. They are only and exactly as much as they need to be to perform their task – no more, no less. They do not exist in excess.
Now, NBC, when not consistently spoiling my viewing experience by forcing me to shun all other media (including Twitter, Facebook, Google+, YouTube, the print newspaper, the radio, and the local TV news on any channel) for fear of learning results before I’m allowed to watch the event, has been airing this commercial from Citi:
In it, you hear the (ostensible) voices of athletes acknowledging the sacrifices they’ve made in order to reach the acmes of their respective sports. But the one that’s stuck with me over the two dozen or more times I’ve seen the commercial, is the voice of a male gymnast saying, “I haven’t ordered dessert in two years.”
Can we all just think about that for a second?
“I haven’t ordered dessert in two years.”
Clearly the gymnast knows what dessert is, so it’s likely he’s had dessert before. Obviously he thinks of going without dessert as a sacrifice, or he wouldn’t be mentioning it in the context of this commercial. So the guy likes dessert. It’s not like, given a choice, he’d be shunning dessert.
But dude. Gymnast dude. You’re telling me you haven’t had one day – just one day – in the last 730 days – where you let yourself have a fucking M&M?
Who could live like that?
(And on a sidenote, can you imagine the uproar it would’ve caused if they’d had a female gymnast say that line? Oh! Oh! Oh, it almost makes me wish the Citi marketing people had been that just that side of stupid. And I’m usually the last person in the world wishing people would get stupider, for Christ’s sakes. We’re barely not blowing everything to shit as it is.)
That spirit of asceticism – combined with the Greek statue builds of the athletes – naturally sent me screaming in the opposite direction – more fatty food, more, MOAR! – which called to mind a blog Margaret Cho wrote a few days ago about one of her disgusting comfort foods: cinnamon raisin bagels smeared with a mountain of cream cheese – topped with Doritos.
And that got me to thinking: unlike Half-Step-Shy-Of-Anorexic-Gymnast-Guy, I’ll bet we all have those Secret Disgusting Comfort Foods, those things we’d usually never admit to eating. That combination of tastes that would likely seem repellent to the general populace – and yet their mixture imparts a sense of personal satisfaction to us that none of the individual ingredients would offer on their own.
I have mine, and now I want to know yours, no matter how repulsive! (Human flesh excepted.) (No, that’s not true. I especially want you to comment if you like human flesh, because that’ll make it much easier for the police to track down your ISP so I’ll eventually be able to sleep again.)
But of course, I am a woman of integrity. Mostly. Okay. I have some integrity most of the time. So I know I can’t possibly ask you to show me yours without me showing you mine first. At least, those are the rules I learned in preschool.
Thus, here’s my confession – my Secret Disgusting Comfort Food:
I like to pour Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Cap’n Crunch, and chocolate chips into a jar of peanut butter, then eat the whole fucking mess directly out of the jar.
It’s revolting. That’s about 150,000 calories per spoonful if I’ve got my shame-weight calculations right, and even after four years, The Finance has never seen me eat this. I would be horrified for him to see me eat this – it’d be like him walking in on me sacrificing babies to yard gnomes. In fact, I think I’d prefer the babies/yard gnome thing because at least then The Finance wouldn’t see my hips expanding in real time.
That’s why it’s called Secret Disgusting Comfort Food.
So speak up, bloggos! Even if you have to sign in anonymously! I know someone out there can top me in Disgustingness – some of y’all eat kale and shit and you’re not even joking. (Though I warn you, if you just make up something gross for the sake of being gross – like, “I eat dog vomit with a sprinkling of cous cous” — I will publicly and repetitively call BULLSHIT on you until you post a picture. Then you’ll be doing your Secret Thing out in the open, and that won’t be very fun, will it? In other words: don’t fib, you fucking fibbers.) So how’s about it?
What’s your Secret Disgusting Comfort Food?
UPDATE: Apparently binge-eaters (like myself, occasionally, much to my shame and chagrin) are experts in Secret Disgusting Comfort Foods.