Once a junkie, always a junkie

Gohs writes another fantastic humor column.
Gohs' I'm So Great is in a store near you or a click away on Amazon!
Gohs’ I’m So Great is in a store near you or a click away on Amazon!

What happens when an ex-murder-a-tarian gets that old craving?

This past Sunday morning was pretty tough because I nearly fell off the wagon.

Luckily the love of my life was there to mentally kidney-punch me into making a good decision.

I was innocently working away when a commercial came on playing that friendly, seductive music.

Sexy models flaunted their luscious meat and beautiful brown buns.

They were playing a tune called “Legalized Crack for Fat Guys” and I was picking up every note they were laying down.

My arm began to itch. My eyes began to twitch. A stroke? No, I got those old cravings again. My eyes began darting back and forth from the kitchen to the clock.

“It’s after eleven,” I thought. “Some people indulge this early.”

The theme song played like porno music in the background.

“Da dot dot da daaaaa!”

“I am loving it,” I thought as my feet flicked with the beat.

Once the commercial ended I went back to clacking away on the keyboard, trying to get the paper finished.

But there was only one thing on my mind—sweet, sweet murder!

After a few minutes of listening to David Gregory blather away about some news item, the same commercial returned.

“Wouldn’t that be tasty?” I asked my sponsor (who also happens to be my wife, and asked that I not refer to her as “my sponsor” in this piece.)

“Not really,” she responded.

“C’mon, let’s go get one,” I pleaded. “It’s brand new and for a limited time only.”

“If you get one you’re going to feel like crap afterward and you’re going to hate yourself for it,” the sponsor reasoned.

She was right but I didn’t care. I had to have one of the new Quarter Pounders from McDonald’s, Peter Singer be damned!

“They have three new sandwiches, you know,” I told the sponsor in a matter-of-fact tone. “There’s the Deluxe, which I hear comes with all sorts of vegetables like lettuce, tomatoes and ketchup (which is a federally recognized vegetable); oh, and then there is the Bacon Cheeseburger. It’s loaded with good protein and calcium; and, quite possibly the sexiest of all, the Habanero, Bacon & Ranch is supposed to be a spicy, smoky, ranchy mouth-gasm.”

Her face curled up as she cringed.

“OK, ‘mouth-gasm’ was my term, but they’re supposed to be really good,” I said with a big open-mouthed smile and shaking my head affirmatively in hopes of working the subconscious suggestion angle. “You are getting very sleepy. You will head for the drive-thru and will not forget the extra napkins this time.”

I waved my hands as if doing a magical spell.

“What are you doing?” she snapped.

“Practicing my sign language,” I said defensively. “What are YOU doing?”

The kids—like hostages in a bank heist—just happened to be with the wrong parents at the wrong time. Both are recovering murder-a-tarians and thought my plan sounded just splendid.

“Right on, Dad!” cheered the son.

“You tell her!” reassured the daughter.

Sensing a mutiny was afoot, the sponsor tried to play it cool: “Not interested,” she said without even looking up from her iPad this time.

Stomachs grumbled. Chops moistened. Brains began plotting against the sponsor, trying to come up with some justification.

“Whose idea was it to become vegetarians anyway?!” I thought.

Indignation swelled.

“Who are you to tell me, a grown man, what I can eat?!” my brain screamed. “I’m a man! You hear me, a man!”

Good one, Gohs!

“What, you think you’re going to live forever because we stopped eating food with a face?!”

It all sounded very convincing inside my head.

“But it has bacon and habanero peppers and cheese,” I whined.

Annoyed to action she stopped reading the latest issue of Bran & Sadness or whatever other communist manifesto it was and proposed a solution.

“How about rice and vegetables,” she said.

She may as well have told me to go out back and put a bullet in Old Yellar.

How about you take a …” the “Idiot” sensor on the part of my brain responsible for making me look both ways before I cross the street, and not sticking my hand in the garbage disposal while it’s running, knew what I was about to say and hit the emergency “STOP” lever before it was half-way out my mouth.

“What’s that?” she said. Her head tilted forward, eyes squinting at me from above her glasses frame.

“Limited time only,” I whispered as my eyes began to well up. “Limited … time … only.”

If you thought this column was funny, Gohs recently published a full book of them. Get yours today by clicking here!