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Lose 40 Pounds in 80 Days

I muttered on for awhile, until finally I fell asleep and drifted off into dreamland - a fat boy's dreamland.

I dreamt all about how I was going to reduce and then strut around in front of that frustrated Pasteur of the U.S. Navy. All about how I'd bare my chest and say, "Okay, Buster - now feel the muscles!"

Would he feel ashamed! Why, he might even say, "Beg pardon, captain, sir, but are you the same old man who waddled in here two weeks ago?"

I'd assure him it was none other than Elmer. The Old Sizzler himself again, instead of the Old Fizzler.

As for those bench warmers waiting to See the World through a porthole, as the recruiting ads (partly) tell them, well, I'd make them eat the doc's words, adjectives and all.

I'd show the Marines and the Navy, too.

Second suitcase, eh? Well, I might even have that saw-bones' jaw flapping against his bony, hairless chest while I nonchalantly bent down right in front of him to tie my shoelaces!


I'LL HIGH-HAT THAT SHIRT SQUIRT


I dreamt on, enjoying my fat boy's dream of what I'd do when I was a thin man once more.

I'd go into that shirt store. Walk up to that clerk, stick out my chin - my one and only! - and snap, "Measure my neck, you!"

When his fine tapering fingers had daintily noosed me with the tape measure and he found himself stuttering out the news that I was again a size 16, I'd tell him, "Wrap up three of 'em, and fast!"


MY WIFE, TOO OH, BROTHER!


The wife would be next. Revenge would be sweet.

When her sorority sisters remarked, "Gee, doesn't Elmer look young, though? You must be feeding him right these days!" why, I'd just give her one of those looks that start a slow burn.

While she was stuttering around trying to think of a reply, I'd casually remark, "Say something, dear?"

Yes, sir, I'd take my new look like it was old stuff. I wouldn't go around bragging about my great accomplishment, I'd just find little ways to make The Brain regret all the times she'd brushed aside my efforts in her conversations with our friends. All those times out in the kitchen during parties when she'd said, "Oh, don't mind him. He's on another diet spree. He'll get over it."

I'd show my otherwise good and faithful helpmate. She'd regret making me sit in the corner while she danced the samba with that snake-hipped foreign gent who always seemed to horn in on our affairs.

Oh, brother! Forty pounds from now!


MY FRIENDS ARE NEXT IN LINE


I dreamt how I'd handle some of my skeptic pals.

There was Jim, who was always gouging my paunch with his thumb and braying, "Ol' Elmer paid $20,000 for this bay window. How much am I bid for it? Haw!" I'd haw him.

There was Joe. "Why reduce?" he always philosophized. "You only get it back."

And there was Starchy Archy who kept saying, "If you're gonna be fat, you're gonna be fat!" The fatalistic fat man. I might even give him my fat boy's pregnancy shirts and six-foot belts as a gift!

I wouldn't forget Eddie, either - 240 pounds of neatly balanced weight, who always boasted, "Any time I want to lose weight, I can - like that!" I'd be the one snapping my fingers now.

George, too, who always smirked, "I haven't gained or lost a pound in 50 years!" He'd have competition next summer when he swam in my Cactus Swim Pool. I, too, would have a figger!

I'd show those 19th-Hole Nifties and Brass Rail Foot Warmers when I slipped into my Adolphe Menjou clothes for a stroll along the boulevards.

I might even get real daring and send a comic Valentine to Sig Klein, c/o his Fat Men's Shop, NYC.!


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