Not as disgusting as I used to be

NBC's The Biggest Loser is back for its . . . let's say 26th edition and the fact that I know this makes me sad. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for the people losing weight and generally making their lives better. I'm just not thrilled that it happens on my television each Tuesday.

You see, my wife works at a gym on a college campus. She's also a personal trainer and has designed and implemented her own Biggest Loser programs for students and faculty, so the allure of the show is too much for her to pass up. So for two hours each week, I get to watch people exercise. Actually, that's not entirely true, we get to watch people exercise for about an hour, spend a good 15 minutes doing various product placement advertisements within the show, and another 45 minutes watching people stand on an apparently broken scale. (What kind of digital scale fluctuates between losing 35 pounds and gaining 54 before settling on what actually happened?)

What it ultimately boils down to is that I'm far too much like the Seinfeld characters than I'd like to admit. If you recall, in the series finale, the four make fun of a fat guy getting robbed.

Jerry: Well, there goes the money for the lipo.

Elaine: See, the great thing about robbing a fat guy is it's an easy getaway. You know? They can't really chase ya!

George: He's actually doing him a favor. It's less money for him to buy food.

Yeah, that's me when I watch The Biggest Loser. I know I should feel bad, and I'd never actually say things like that in a group of people  (at least not a group of people I didn't know well), but when contestants on the show say things like "I left a large part of me at home," I can't help but think to myself "you know, if you left a large part of yourself at home, you wouldn't need to be on this show."

However, I do find myself watching for one reason . . . I want to be able to cheer for the woman who is going to be the hottest when they finally do lose the weight. (You can call me shallow, but I think we've pretty well established that fact in the paragraph above.) Were I a single guy, I'd definitely want to date someone who goes on that show because you know she'd be hot when she finished (well, maybe not as hot as Alison Sweeney, but still probably pretty hot.)

So for the next three months, I get to watch a bunch of overweight people slowly become less overweight, then (as John Kruk said on a NutriSystem commercial) less disgusting then they used to be, then . . . well, eventually they get to the attractive/hot stage. 

If I were King of the World

Note: This was originally written for another blog that never got off the ground.

I’d finally have a legitimate reason to get a moat.

DJ Jazzy Jeff would not be forgotten.

The Designated Hitter would be abolished.

People who bother/annoy/irritate me would be sent to Croatia.

However, the possibility of being put to death would still be an option.

SportsNight would still be on the air.

Facebook status updates related to politics, religion or the like would be frowned upon.

All the current kings of countries would be upset at their loss of power and prestige.

Sporting events would not be able to end in a tie.

I’d build a tree fort in my yard.

Cobie Smolders would know who I am.

I would totally bring back the whole ‘Brides give themselves to the king first on their wedding night’ thing, but only for the really hot ones.

My wife still wouldn’t find that previous one funny.

Meatloaf (the singer, not the food) would be forced to tell the world what it is he won’t do for love.

I’d still be a loyal subject of He-Man, who is Master of the Universe.

I’d provide greater transparency into the process of becoming king. (As we all know, the Lady of the Lake holds aloft ‘Excalibur,’ signifying by divine providence that I, Luke, am to be King of the Britons . . . err, world.)

I could buy a ‘Toad the Wet Sprocket’ at any convenience store (Not the album, but an actual ‘Toad the Wet Sprocket’).

All those girls who ignored me in high school would suddenly be all like “Hey, Luke, remember me? We went to high school together. So you’re King of the World. That’s cool. Can you (perform random favor likely having to do with an ex-boyfriend or someone they have a grudge against?”) I’d be all like “Yeah, I could do that, but since you were a stuck-up b!%$^ in high school, I’m going to do the opposite of that just to spite you.”

On a related note, I’d apparently become a bit of a jerk.

Right Said Fred’s I’m Too Sexy would be Earth’s new planetary anthem.
(Which assumes it’s not the current planetary anthem and I’m not totally convinced it isn’t.)

Anne Hathaway would know who I am, she’d ignore me at parties, but she’d know who I was.

People would be working around the clock to explain to me why it’s called a ‘house party’ and not just a ‘party.’

The McRib would be a permanent menu item at McDonalds.

A grand jury would be empanelled to investigate the couple of guys who were up to no good in Will Smith’s neighborhood who caused one little fight, causing his mom to get scared and told him he was moving with auntie and uncle in Bel Air.

I would demand to meet the person who only needs three licks to get to the tootsie roll center of a tootsie pop and make them demonstrate it nightly on a world stage.

Festivus would be a global holiday.

Scientists would find out how they crammed all that graham and if it turns out it was all a marketing ploy, those responsible would be executed right after the tootsie pop guy performed.

Sir Mix-A-Lot would be formally knighted.

A commission would be set up to find a way to bring ALF back from planet Melmac to Earth where he would be adopted as my family pet.

My current pet would not appreciate ALF’s sense of humor.

Carrie Underwood would know who I am, she wouldn’t give me the time of day, but she’d at least recognize my name.

The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles would be officially renamed ‘Ninja Turtles’ as they would be approaching their mid-to-late 30s and the mutant thing would be fairly obvious.

I’d follow up with the Barenaked Ladies to see if they really did all the things they said they’d do if they had a million dollars.

Fat, drunk and stupid would be a way to go through life.

People would remember the non-Keanu Reeves guy’s name from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.

I’d have to be well-versed in the popular culture of other countries to be able to make cynical comments about their interests.

Mr. Jones and me would tell each other fairy tales while we stare at the beautiful women.

Zach and Kelly would end up together.
(It turns out they did get married in a made-for-tv movie, but as we all know, Saved by the Bell officially ended with the graduation episode. Tori never happened. You hear me. TORI NEVER HAPPENED.)

While we’re at it, all references of Saved by the Bell: The New Class would be removed from the planet and anyone alluding to them in any way would be sent to Croatia. (I don’t support censorship, but come on, that was an abomination that made Cool as Ice seem worthy of a lifetime achievement award for cinema).

Women would be required to wear these at the beach.

Adriana Lima would know who I was, she still wouldn’t find me attractive, but she’d have to at least say hello.

An investigation would be launched to explain how Optimus Prime was killed in the animated “Transformers: The Movie” film, but was alive and well in the non-animated “Transformers” movie.

My wife would get her wish of meeting Stephen Colbert.

I would find that damn Nigerian Prince with all the money and tell him to quit emailing me.

I wouldn’t feel out of place at parties when people talk about 24 or Lost.

The hunting of those driving the God-awful pick-up trucks with the mufflers removed in a pathetic attempt to compensate for their ‘shortcomings’ would be lawful. To encourage such hunting, the person who gets the most in the first year of my reign becoming third in line to the throne after myself and my son. (Why yes, someone in my neighborhood owns one of those trucks and regularly uses it to make as much noise as possible in a neighborhood with a 15 mph speed limit, often waking my son up from his nap. Why do you ask?)

College graduations would involve free beer and strippers, preferably from the undergraduate class at the school.

Water fountains would flow with Guinness, and not that crappy 250^th anniversary stuff, but the good stuff.

People could freely admit to liking Hootie and the Blowfish without fear of social scorn.

Jon Stewart would have an official position as “Advisor to the King.” I’m not sure what he’d do, exactly, but he’d do something important.

I’d still have to do whatever my wife tells me to do.