“You want to know the story? I'd be happy to tell you. I think I have
just enough caloric energy stored up to make it through the telling of
the tale. It's short. I am monstrously fat. I am a glutton. My wife was
disgusted and repulsed. She gave me six months to lose one hundred
pounds. I joined Weight Watchers . . . see it there, right across the
street, that gaunt storefront? This afternoon was the big six-month
weigh-in. So to speak. I had gained almost seventy pounds in the six
months. An errant Snickers bar fell out of the cuff of my pants and
rolled against my wife's foot as I stepped on the scale. The scale over
there across the street is truly an ingenious device. One preprograms
the desired new weight into it, and if one has achieved or gone below
that new low weight, the scale bursts into recorded whistles and cheers
and some lively marching-band tune. Apparently, tiny flags protrude from
the top and wave mechanically back and forth. A failure--see for
instance mine--results in a flatulent dirge of disappointed and
contemptuous tuba. To the strains of the latter my wife left, the
establishment, me, on the arm of a svelte yogurt distributor whom I am
even now planning to crush, financially speaking, first thing tomorrow
morning. Ms. Beadsman, you will find an eclair on the floor to the left
of your chair. Could you perhaps manipulate it onto this plate with
minimal chocolate loss and pass it to me.”
David Foster Wallace
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