By the way folks, don’t go off an expect blogs written specifically to each one of you. I’ve done it a few times now, and already I feel the need to convert to Judaism and then feel really guilty.

Back to the portion stuff. What better way to end yet another two-blog day (read: no life), and this on the eve of a big U.S. holiday (read: economic boon with a small side of family.) It’s almost like I wrapped them in a bow — a cool bow, if there is such a thing. Not like the bows you see crowning the cranium of 20-something college coeds at Abilene Christian University, circa 1989.

These poor estrogen cabinets of mental retrenchment subscribed to Fashion By Garanimals Weekly and made Martha Stewart look like Neil Young on a shower strike. Seriously, most of these gals must have been born and raised in Tell Men That You’ll Never Like Sex County. That’s like the Rhode Island of The Fashion States of America — if Rhode Island sucked so much we decided to use it as a nuclear testing ground. It doesn’t, so everyone from Providence can just chill out.

Okay, the portion stuff is coming, swear, but now Bingo’s wrath is about to stink up the place. Not that much, as Bingo needs to clean house and do junk.

What, you think God never has to clean Heaven? You…you, what…think that gold streets don’t need a bit of Tarn-X on occasion? (Remember, that gunk supposedly works even on platinum.) Okay, perhaps He doesn’t clean the joint much since there’s no oxygen there. I’ll assume there isn’t…but that still leaves a problem with the river. You know that water is the Great Solvent, right? No, that’s not another deity in Paradise for all of you out there diving for St. John, Milton, Dante, or the Koran. While there’s other texts on the subject, Bingo flat-out doesn’t care right now, unless you want to come over and do my dishes. Mom is stopping by tomorrow, and much like Mother Mary, she doesn’t like a messy kitchen (II Opinions, Chapter 5, Verses 3-4, NIV.)

Golly. This has already strayed further the subject of “portion sizes” than Lucifer from the Pearly Gates. That clever witticism was in-keeping with the topic, for all of you who might have slept through Lit 101. I did. I just remember stuff while I’m sleeping. Nifty tool.

Jacko — before the portions and the bows bit, this whole Heaven thing has me in a tizzy. Bingo is confused. For instance, did you know that more substances dissolve in water than in any other liquid? The reason for water’s excellent dissolving capability relates to its polarity; water offers positive and negative charges to which other atoms of molecules can attach. Given this wee bit of a science lesson, perhaps we can see that, yes, Heaven may need a bit of polishing around the edges from time to time. And this would jive with what my ex-pastor would say: “Jon, I’d rather be a janitor in heaven than a king in hell.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Milton thought of that first.

Perhaps St. John was being figurative. In fact, my money is on the fact that he was (“hyperbolic” if memory serves) in most all his writings on the subject, otherwise we could build Heaven ourselves — and no, I’m not talking about Texas Stadium. Something tells me God would not appreciate us even trying, invoking memories of that whole failed “Tower of Babel” fiasco. That horrific encounter with an angry deity left us with the damn silly Bantu language and snooty French waiters. So “gold streets”, oxidation theories, solvent issue…yeah. Probably not literal. Metaphorical. Bingo gets it. I’m now at peace…except for the bows, and portion sizes.

I’m still pissed about that stuff.

First, the bows…naturally, as you really want me to get to the point about nutritional wisdom and portion control, but I don’t wanna.

I know these “bows” were not figurative, nor were they nearly as lovely as streets of gold. More like streets of greasy grimy gopher guts.

Bows are best left on the skulls of girls under the age of, oh, 7 or so…and on presents. That’s it. End of the bow’s usefulness to humankind. Really. If you have a bow (not a string, not a hair-dilly-thingy, but a literal “bow”) on your head right now and you’re old enough to buy beer, take that s - - t off. Really ladies, trust me.

The only exception to this may be some sort of role-play fantasy stuff, and for that Bingo approves —but doubts you’d be reading this blog in-between bouts of playing “I’m a naughty Catholic school girl.”

So do us both a favor and either get a haircut or buy someone a gift and wrap it with paper that goes well with the evil incarnation of death that resides upon your scalp. Bingo thanks you. I had to endure 5 long years of that crap, ending in wearing a bow on my own head the last day of my collegiate experience as a witty form of protest. No kidding. I have pictures. I missed Vietnam, so in the late 80s we had to improvise on our protests. Between bows and drum machines, we didn’t have much to choose from.

Funny thing was that (a) no one got it, and (b) I had 20 requests ‘for’ the bow from the aforeme…damn. What IS another word for “aforementioned” other than that word I used last time? Oh, Jacko — “aforementioned” will do. I had 20 requests from the aforementioned ladies for my bow. One must assume that they actually enjoyed wearing these Medusa-like creations on the nob they called a head as their I.Q.s slowly dripped down the Drain of Life like mucus down the sinuses of a lactose-intolerant ice cream shop owner.

Metaphor Man just hit an all-time low with that ditty.

By now you probably get the idea that I think bows suck on adult women, and you’d be correct. Picture the direct opposite of Viagra. There you go.

Okay, finally — portions.

Really, I’m not kidding…I’m going to actually discuss stuff that you’re interested in. Humor me (again) and pretend you found all of that prior verbal gold witty, insightful, entertaining, and a bit naughty so I can protect my reputation as the world’s greatest (read: ‘still’ only) fitness humorist. Cool. We’re cool man. Hugs.

I’ll get right to the point (HA…god, that cracked ME up…): America has a serious problem with portion sizes. It goes beyond restaurants, however. The restaurants started this evil trend, but like most evil trends, the teenage rock-a-boppers brought their devil’s music into the dens of America and…

…oh, that was rock-n-roll music. Sorry.

Like most evil trends, we pick up on them and do what the other sheep are doing. That includes purchasing larger plates, larger ovens, larger clothes and larger insurance policies to cover our larger health care bills. Everything is bigger in America. Texas has the “everything bigger” reputation, but in actuality the entire United States can lay claim to it.

Texas just has bigger trucks, egos, women’s hair and moo-cows. That’s about it. I won’t even lie to you and say, “Bigger…you know…heh.” By doing so I relegate myself to all you ladies believing just the opposite, which is not true. Then again, by mentioning that I relegate myself to the opposite in conjunction with the aforementioned (DAMN) statement about “you know”, I have forever doomed myself to reside in Small Weenieville within your twisted parameters of subjective acuity.

Jacko.

You know, I really think this has to be one of the more entertaining yet utterly pointless blogs yet.

Bigger portions. Here’s a nifty study for you:

Some fellas from the University of Michigan decided to figure out exactly how much larger our portion sizes have increased both in the home and in restaurants over the past 50 years. Their results made “me” want to go on a diet — and that’s like the dirtiest word I can think of other than “Cher”.

In 50 years, our portion sizes in the home have increased 42% for processed foods and decreased about the same for foods high in fiber. In short, more junk, less Roto-Rooter. More empty calories, less thermogenic calories. More fat, less fun. Still, we’re talking ‘larger amounts of food’, no matter how you slice the pie, which we also consume in larger portions.

Restaurants make those stats look cheery: up 220%.

Look restaurant owners: I realize that you have an intrinsic need to go out of business, waste food rather than break the law and give the uneaten portions to the poor who are currently forced to dig it out of the trash and eat it anyway, and of course turn 400% on every item you sell, but…hello? 220%? Are you f-n nuts? I think so…and you’d serve me 220% more of ‘em if you even had them on the menu.

Like most people, I enjoy going out to eat on occasion. We have some of the best restaurants you can imagine in Dallas. Not quite New York City, but it’s darn close. Why? Because there isn’t jack-else to do here, that’s why. Dallas, per-capita, is like top 5 in the States for restaurants. Dallas is also the second fattest city in Texas. Houston still rules in that department and, you got it — Houston also has a ton of restaurants per-capita. Hmmm. A pattern, no?

Flat, hot, humid and/or non-scenic cities with lots of places to buy large food. This is not a good combination if you plan on seeing your toes in 10 years.

Now for the good news. First, the same study revealed that decreasing portion sizes to “near” the size of 50 years prior, done slowly over a course of several months, did not affect customer satisfaction. While the study stopped there, I can tell you from many years of professional experience that a smaller plate with whole, unprocessed, tasty food on it will satisfy most any palette more-so than a huge plate containing nothing but nutritional detritus.

Keeping this in mind, and my first blog today about how little bits of Jolly Ranchers dissed me on a pound of fat, you should consider looking at portion control seriously. The best way to do this is with MasterMeals, as the portions are controlled by the very nature of the system. Another method, for those of you who are too cheap to feed Bingo, is to only put the food you plan to eat on the table. This is a crucial mistake I see in many over-fat households: mom and dad put enough food on the dinner table to feed all the screenwriters (read: waiters serving you large portions of large food) in Los Angeles. It’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet every night.

Stop that, or Bingo will smite thee.

Do about 5 minutes of math and a few extra minutes of work and put the food on the plates, not in large containers from which the family can continue to graze. That’s “cows” you’re thinking about, not “family”…and cows eat grass, which is very low in calories. If you want to serve grass (the legal kind), then fine. Feel free to put a heap of it in the center of the table and say, “Come and get it!” until the…damn. “Cows come home” would have been really redundant there.

Bingo is weary. You think of something.

Bingo must clean now.

Jon should stop using “Bingo” as a method of self-narrative, agreed? Well…Bingo has an objection.

I kid, I kid.

I have to figure out how to do laundry now.

Wish Bingo luck. {10}