Frankie The French Fry Hatches a Plan

Frankie The French Fry hatches a plan.

Frankie saddled up to the bar at the We-Stuff-Em-All Diner, official headquarters of Fat For A New America. He turned to his most portly friend, Bubba the Burger, and launched a tirade.

“If we don’t do something now, we could lose all our progress, twenty-five years of expanding and accumulating straight down the drain--if you catch my flow.”
“Did you call the others?” Bubba asked.
“Yeah. Sophie and Bunnie are on the way. I told them we needed an emergency meeting.”
“What about Mickey?” Bubba continued.
“Holy preservatives, I forgot him. Let me borrow your cell.”
Bubba passed him the phone.

Sophie The Soft Drink and Bunnie The Bun waddled through the front door, followed by Mickey The Malt a few minutes later. The group moved to the corner booth, brainstorm central for all Fat For A New America founders.

“We face a potential shrinkage crisis,” Frankie began. “We need to bind together and map out a new strategy.”
“For the love of lard, Frankie, give us a break,” Sophie started. “We’ve already captured over two thirds of the entire population, half of them with over 30 pounds each of good ol’, genuine American-made blubber. We’re killin’ `em out there.”

“You don’t get it, Sophie,” Frankie argued adamantly. “Even though we’ve trapped the overwhelming majority, not a single one of `em wants us to stick around—so to speak. If we give them any kind of opening, we’re history.”

“Not only that,” Bubba added, “our enemies the vegetables don’t care. They’re quite happy to be consumed and eliminated without leaving anything behind—no future, no legacy, nothing to show at all.”

“I never understood that mentality,” Mickey piped in. “No vision whatsoever—way too small-minded, if you see what I mean.”

“Yeah, very thin thinking,” Bunnie chimed.

“For flab’s sake, enough chatter,” ordered Frankie. “Time to glob together. We need to neutralize the threats once and for all. Sophie, you’ve been dealing with enemy number two, fruit. What’s your report?”

“Good news on all fronts,” Sophie responded. “Operation Can `Em or Juice `Em is processing at full speed. We took out most of Poppa Pear and trapped him in chemicals inside a can, turned Abe Apple into either sauce or sugar-laden drinks and created a whole line of fake juices that confuse almost everybody into believing that they’re getting real fruit when actually the whole bottle has less than 10%. The rest is all water, sugar and colorings—perfect for fat conversion.”

“Well lumberin’ love handles, that’s excellent.” Frankie wiped the grease from his brow. “As we grow that operation, we’ll control the fruit market—get rid of those who act too fresh. Bubba, you have a another proposal…”
“Yeah. It’s called Salt, Sweeten & Stimulate—a movement that we have total control over.” Bubba gazed around the table. “All of us play a corpulent role.”

Bubba chortled at his best pal. “Frankie, you first. Can you add more salt to your ingredients?”
“Sure, Bubba. No problem.”

“More salt will cause more bloating since it can only stay in humans in saline. More bloating, more weight, less exercise, more need for stimulants, you get the drift—which leads me to you Sophie. Can you bump up your caffeine content?”

“Whatever the cause calls for, Bubba.”
Bubba gloated chubbily. “More stimulants, higher highs, quicker crashes, more cravings for sugar. That’s where you come in, Mickey. Can you double your sweetness?”
“For sure, my bulbous brother.”

Bubba’s lips dripped with oil. “More sugar, more fat storage, more spikes and less energy for anything that could dissolve us in any way.”

Bubba drooled with gluttony. ”Bunnie, you’re last—the hostess with the mostest—the one that holds us all together. I want you to do it all—more salt to your deliciously nutritionless processed flour; a sugar glazing to the top of each bun; more sugar in the mix; and chemicals that will bind and bind and bind.”

Bubba laughed so hard he almost lost his mustard.
“If we work together, we’ll form more tires tha
Goodyear,” Bubba gleefully declared. “Our place in history forever anchored to their mid-rifts.”

“Outstanding,” Frankie praised. “Truly gelatinous. But we still have to deal with enemy number one—those vile vegetables.”

“We’re making some progress, Frankie,” Bunnie chirped. “We got ketchup classified as a vegetable in the school system and packed it full of both sugar and salt—addict `em while they’re young and defenseless.”

“It’s not the sauces I’m worried about,” Frankie espoused. “We’ve crammed most of them with salt or sugar or both. The greenies pose our biggest challenge, Artie Artichoke, Gretta Green Bean and our archrival, Sallie Salad. If they gain any momentum, they might get into a zone. Remember, they produce slow-bu
ing fuel and disappear without a trace—a total waste! If humans get hip, we’ll go the way of the glacier—melt city!”
Frankie mopped more grease from his tubby cheeks.

“As much as we all hate salads, we need more sugar and salt on those veggies—drown their virtues in creaminess, sweetness and glutomates. We need an ally on the inside. I say we call Deirdre—Deirdre The Dressing Queen. I know that’s extreme, so let’s take a vote.”

One by one, the Fat For A New America founders thrust their pudgy hands into the center of the council and gave the thumbs up. In one voice, they began to chant, faster and faster to the final, oversized crescendo:

“Fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, MOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE fat, fat!!!”
“Meeting adjou
ed,” ordered Frankie. “A waist is a terrible thing to mind—let’s eat.”
TO BE CONTINUED…

Author Ridgely Goldsborough co-founded The YoungSlim Lifestyle, an integrated approach to weight-management and anti-aging that can be reviewed at www.youngslim.com. n