On New Years Resolutions, and the failure thereof
It's that time of year again, where the weak-of-willed (such as myself) attempt to turn over a new leaf and do something useful with our lives. By giving up smoking, for example:
Bart: When I'm old enough I'm going to give up smoking
Homer: Giving up smoking is the hardest thing you'll ever have to do. Have a dollar
Lisa: Dad! You gave him a dollar and he didn't do anything!
Homer: Didn't he Lisa? Didn't he? Wait... no he didn't. D'oh!
Last year, I made an attempt to go to the gym regularly, but crippled myself playing golf and never went back. The whole Gym Thing wasn't helped by the fact that Sir Steve Redgrave, training for the London Marathon, was a regular visitor at the time, and his huge, toned body on the rowing machine versus my sweating, coughing frame was the worst motivation ever.
This year, however, I have a foolproof plan. I am going on a diet. A special diet I devised on the toilet this morning.
"Ooh", I said to myself, "There's those brand new digital bathroom scales some evil-minded bugger gave us this year. I wonder how much I weigh."
Thirty seconds later:
It was at that exact moment of Aaaargh-ness that I had my plan. I would done an enormous poo, and weigh myself again.
So I did. And it being a massive, massive poo, I lost TWO POUNDS in mere minutes. If I could keep up this rate of loss, I would hit my target weight within a matter of days. Then I'd get my picture in the Daily Mirror, wearing a pair of outsized trousers borrowed off MC Hammer, and the Duck Diet book deal would surely follow.
The Duck Diet would be the way forward for thousands, nay millions, of fellow bloaters the world over. What could possibly go wrong?
Then I went downstairs and celebrated my New Years Resolution with beer, cake and pie. God, I'm a genius.
Also: Duck News on Dead Dictator December.