Till death do us split.

Right now, I am eating a banana split sundae and I never want it to end.

I want to eat this banana split sundae forever, and ever and evermore.

I will eat it in hot times and in cold times. In sickness and in health.

I will rudely eat my sundae in front of people—lactose intolerant losers, hungry street bums, kids who will beg for a bite.

When I refuse to share, I’ll make up an excuse. “We can’t exchange germs. You probably have ebola.”

The children will run away screaming, and I will wave at their parents as I spoon soft, cool cream into my salivating mouth.

People will become annoyed by my preoccupation, especially my mailman, who will be irked by my terrible manners. “Oww arr ouu?” I’ll ask, as melting, vanilla ice cream dribbles from the corners of my lips onto the mailman’s pants. 

My banana split sundae will be there for the birth of my first child. When the doctors hand me the baby, I will hand the baby to my husband, because it is nearly impossible to hold a baby and a banana split sundae at the same time.

At the funeral of a loved one, I will deliver a heartfelt eulogy while weeping over my dessert. I will suddenly feel better when I realize salty tears are a delicious accompaniment for chocolate sauce.

So I will carry on. I will eat my banana split sundae until I become old and wrinkled. Crepe-ish, papery skin will sag from my strong bones, fortified by years of vitamin D consumption. But I’ll never grow fat. And I’ll never develop diabetes. I’ll look like I’ve been eating kale my whole life instead.

The problem is, I’m just now realizing my banana split sundae is running out. Could this really be the end? Is my boat-shaped bowl not a bottomless pit of yum? With my one last bite, I will take one last breath. Then, may I rest in peace, and may my spirit float to heaven, where I will reside in a land of banana split sundaes for all of eternity, amen.

A holiday for your happy downfall.

Happy Resolutions Remorse Day!

Oh, you don’t know what that is? Let me explain.

As January comes to a close, you’re itching to break the unrealistic goals you set for yourself this year.

By now, you’ve considered violating your resolutions so many times, you’ve developed a tic. It’s imperative your butt crosses the threshold of a door five times before the rest of your body. Unsurprisingly, everyone thinks you’re demented.

You’ve also taken to drawing tiny cartoons of a man (who looks like you) stabbing other men and women (who look like your co-workers) with a large, state-of-the-art cooking knife. You’ve hung the troubling artwork on your wall, thereby surrounding yourself with a sea of imagery, depicting blood, murder and despair.

Frighteningly, your irritability is causing you to plunger the faces of people who disturb you—especially while you watch cartoons or organize your vintage button collection.

So here’s a day to help get you through.

Instead of sitting around thinking, “I don’t want to be positive. Why wasn’t I content being the pessimist I was born to be?”

Or, “Maybe I don’t want washboard abs. Who cares if I never look like a cross between Ryan Gosling, Brad Pitt and Channing Tatum?”

Well, stop torturing yourself and let loose.

Walk down the street with your hand in a bag of cheesy Doritos. Your beer gut hanging from your lucky, junior-sized, football jersey. Your old, dirty sneakers untied. Because you know you wanna!

Bathe in a tub of Coke while listening to Joy Division’s “She Lost Control.” Chant all the reasons you hate yourself—you peaked in high school, your thighs touch, you’ll never be as good as your sister Natalie. Because, again, you know you wanna!

At the end of the day, you’ll probably feel more remorse for having broken your resolutions than for having made them. But don’t worry about that yet. Just relish in the masochistic sweetness of doing everything you know you shouldn’t.


Another pop star.

"Chloe’s Jelly Belly Steals The Show.”
“Lead Singer Renamed: ‘Chloe Doughy Gut.'"
“Chloe finds love (around her waist).”

Jennifer Lawrence outlawed calling people “fat,”
but it didn’t do me any good.

The media berates me and it’s all because I gained
30, little pounds.

Meanwhile, pop star Evie E. is being hailed as
“beautifully plump.”

She gets away with caloric murder because Rolling Stone magazine named her: “The voice that’s changed music as we know it—today, tomorrow, forever and always, to infinity and beyond.”

Sadly, I think I set myself up for criticism. I can't dress for my figure because Kiki and I are “The Cropped Toppers" and we always have to look the part.

Our band began one magical night in summer 2012. We were walking to a Brooklyn loft party when Kiki hummed a tune. I chimed in with lyrics:

“Ooo, we wear our cropped tops
Other girls gonna call the cops
Because we kill it every night
The boys, they always fight
For our ahh-feh-heh-heh-hec-shunnn.”

We ended up recording the track, "Killer Cropped Tops," which led to a series of successes we never dreamed of.

We signed a deal with Cutie Pie Records.
Topped the charts with “Lick My Belly Button.”
Hit no. 1 with “Tummy Teaser.”
Won a teen choice award for “Best Band Ever.”
Garnered millions of fans.
Inspired a line of limited edition Barbie dolls.
Embarked upon a sold-out, 50-city tour.

We blew up overnight. Then, so did my weight.

Can you blame me? The tour was stressful. We were always rushing to our next show. We became slaves to the road and its exit eateries. I had no choice but to break a sacred oath I made back in college:

“To Zeta Beta Zeta. Its founders. Its sisters ere now. Its sisters present. I hereby pledge to never, ever (ever, ever, under any circumstance, ever) lay finger or tongue upon tiny penis or fast food meal.”

Don't worry. I didn’t disobey the “tiny penis” part (Lenny the bus driver is crazy huge). But I did start eating Burger King.

Actually, I got addicted to their Satisfries.
That’s why I gained 30 pounds.
That's why none of my cropped tops look right. 
That’s why I routinely broke out in tears on stage, during the jumping portion of our choreography. 
And that’s why I’m currently on Prozac and a new “Chew It to Lose It” gum cleanse.

I’ve consoled myself by reminding myself no one is perfect. Not even Yeezus. And, I'll bet you Kim Kardashian’s ass fat he's never really run suicides on the tour bus.

An old man's resolutions.

Maurice Brescia, a 99-year-old man from Boston, Massachusetts, says this year’s going to be different.

A recent study published by The Journal of Reliable Studies reported, out of all Americans, elderly people are most committed to keeping their New Year’s resolutions.

“I don’t have a lot of time left,” says Brescia. “I’m taking advantage of my last, precious years by becoming the man I always wanted to be.”

Brescia’s determined to stick to three resolutions.

“My goal is to fart less,” says Brescia. “When I’m gassy, the room gets wicked smelly. No one wants to be around me. And I’d like to see more of my grandchildren.”

Brescia’s second resolution is to eat healthier. “For 50 years, I’ve been addicted to spray cheese. Why not real cheese? Well, I don’t know. I kind of like the ‘pssss, chuuu’ sound it makes coming out of the can.”

Brescia hopes his second resolution will help him follow his first.

When asked about his third must-do in 2014, the elderly man says, “I’m cleaning up my crumbs.”

Brescia eats toast for breakfast; he admits to making a crumby mess every, single morning. “When I go to butter the toast? That’s when things get out of control,” says Brescia. “Maybe I’m an aggressive butter-er.”

In the past, he brushed crumbs from counter to floor and looked away to feign ignorance. “I’d step in them [the crumbs]. They’d stick to my feet. Then, friends would come over and ask, ‘Ey, Maurice! Why you got crusty feet?’ So I’ve gotta get clean.”

Brescia says he also wants to win the lottery, although he understands that’s more of a wish than a resolution. “I just want to hit the jackpot so I can die in a pool full of money.”

He’s performing 100 “Please God, make me a millionaire” prayers a day to increase the likelihood his wish will come true.

We’re eight days into 2014 and Brescia says he’s still going strong. “I’m crumb free. I’m eating real, sharp cheddar in what my wife calls ‘moderation.’ And I did fart once, but don’t tell anyone. It was one of those ‘silent but deadly’ deals and I blamed it on the dog.”

Mindy mania.

I have this best friend, Mindy Kaling. Maybe you’ve heard of her?

Well, lately, I can’t stop thinking about Mindy and her absolute refusal to acknowledge me since she became famous.

I just don’t get it. We’re so much alike. Like, if I had a twin, who was Indian, and born nine years ahead of me, it would be Mindy. There’s no doubt in my mind.

We’re both from towns outside Boston.

We both look hot in the color pink.

Mindy loves TV, and so do I.

We have a mutual love for Nora Ephron movies, especially You’ve Got Mail (Y.G.M.) and Sleepless in Seattle (S.I.S). In fact, we even started a club called “What Would Nora Do?”

Once a week, we’d meet to strategize ways of turning our lives into romantic comedies. The process mainly involved reenacting crucial scenes from Y.G.M. and S.I.S.

Mindy has a high-pitched voice, so I always let her play Meg (even though she wasn't blonde enough for the part).

Honestly, though, Mindy’s exoticism is one of my favorite parts about her. Like, if I were a lesbian, and had a girlfriend, who was Indian, and born nine years ahead of me, it would be Mindy. There’s no doubt in my mind.

I remember this one time, we stayed in on a Friday night. And ordered Domino’s 5-5-5. Then, Insomnia Cookies. We even made a trip to 7-Eleven for Pirate’s Booty (Aged White Cheddar, duh). We watched romantic comedies, acted out SNL skits and laughed until we cried.

“I like you,” Mindy said. “I like you more,” I cooed. “No, I like you more,” Mindy cried. “No…”

Ok. Fine. Maybe I was exaggerating. Mindy and I didn’t order Dominos AND Insomnia Cookies.

Ok, fine. We didn’t order either.

FINE, god damnit. This story didn’t happen in real life, but it did in my dreams. Doesn’t that count for anything?

So I admit it: Mindy and I aren’t best friends (yet). But that’s only because we haven’t met. Once we do—and I’m still working out the details of exactly when that will be—we’ll fall into instant, best friend love. Mark my words.