Sunday Will Never Be the Same

                       Spanky and Our Gang

Sunday is my new favorite day. “No duh,” you say? Along with Saturday, it’s probably a given. Friday was my third fave when I was working for the man. Now that I’m retired from having to report daily from 8 A.M. until my work was completed, everyday could be considered part of a weekend for me. So why now is Sunday different again?

Allow me to humble-brag about losing 15 pounds—a little over 1 stone; or almost 7 kilograms—since starting this radical weight-loss program, now 56 days into it. That’s roughly a 2-lb per-week shed, with 5 more to go before my pigging out as a grand reward for obtaining my goal.

As with classical conditioning and Pavlov’s dogs, a treat for acknowledging a certain desirable behavior or condition, considered by Rover as “well done, my boy,” applauds a subject and prompts them to behave in such a prudent fashion henceforth. A weekly gratuity for sticking on my mundane regimen allows me to eat something wantonly fattening, treating myself to something entirely different on Sundays, on which day I wake up while salivating.

It may not sound like a big deal to you, but a breakfast of bacon, eggs, home fried potatoes, whole-wheat toast and strawberry preserves to me after a week of virtually fasting is a symphonic aria sung by yours truly while cooking it all, bellowing in the key of “C,” presumably, much to my neighbors’ chagrin. Why, that bodacious meal inspired me to make this noteworthy journal entry.

For lunch I’ll have a famous Nathan’s Hot Dog, purchased at a convenience store on the way to a lazin’ spot later. Tonight it’s going to be a platter of mussels floating in a garlic-and-butter sauce, topped off with a chef’s salad and a bottle or two of Samuel Adams Boston Ale.

For the brave and naturally inquisitive, an update of our foregoing science project in the refrigerator:

Day 191 of Science Project

Day 191 – My How Time Flies

The orb has taken on the texture of a softball, although quite a bit harder than its original state. The grapefruit has shrunk considerably as well. I’m wondering if it would be edible still. Would you like some?

About Mike Slickster

As an early retiree with an honorary doctorate degree from the proverbial "School of Hard Knocks," this upcoming author with a lot of free time on his hands utilizes his expansive repertoire for humorous yet tragic, wildly creative writing that contains years of imaginative fantasy, pure nonsense, classic slapstick, extreme happiness and searing heartbreak; gathered by a wealth of personal experiences throughout his thrilling—sometimes mundane or unusually horrid—free-spirited, rock-'n'-roller-coaster ride around our beloved Planet Earth. Mike Slickster's illustrious quest continues, living now in Act Three of his present incarnation, quite a bit on the cutting edge of profundity and philosophical merriment as seen through his colorful characters, most notably evident in the amusing Thirty Days Across the Big Pond series, all of which can be found at
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