I Blame the Italians
We sat there,
Hungry,
Desolate,
Weary and confused.
We had spent the day at the water park with the sunshine ablaze on our too-smug faces.
We splashed and whooped and "wheeeeeeeee!!!!"'d down water slides a'plenty.
We were having a blast and were remiss not to realize that with each raft carried up the steep stairs to a slippery slide, we wearied ourselves.
We were easy prey for the Italians.
As we left the water park the effects of the sun's violent rays were realized.
My brother, in disillusioned tongue questioned us whether we'd like to get dinner together en route to our homes.
We nodded emphatically because words were beyond us by then.
And that is how we ended up at the Italian's place.
The beautiful waitress with her buxom good looks cast her spell on us.
"What can I get you all to eat?" she quizzed, the persuasion in her gaze burning through me.
"Pizza? Pasta? Salad? Garlic Bread? A pitcher of draft beer? Spicy hot wings?..."
Her recommendations were like daggers that we couldn't deflect.
And so, as it were, we ended up with all of the above decadent choices on our table.
Like ravenous cavemen we imbibed in the sinful feast that lay before us.
It was Heaven.
It was Hell.
At least one of my comrades had to un- do a button while eating.
I was so intent on slaying the mountain of food before me that I hardly had time to breathe.
Why?
Why do the Italians hate us so much?
Why must they use fresh tomatoes and crisp lettuce in their salads?
Why must their pastas have that peppery flavor I adore so much?
Why is their pizza so cheesy and delectable that I've been fantasizing about it since we left the place?
The diet was officially null and void. My distended belly was angry and elated all at once.
I was in a state of euphoria but felt the guilt of knowing hours on the treadmill couldn't erase the damage the Italians had done, with weeks still left in bikini season.
I only take solace in knowing I was not to blame for my weakness.
I blame the The Others.
I Blame the Italians.
Hungry,
Desolate,
Weary and confused.
We had spent the day at the water park with the sunshine ablaze on our too-smug faces.
We splashed and whooped and "wheeeeeeeee!!!!"'d down water slides a'plenty.
We were having a blast and were remiss not to realize that with each raft carried up the steep stairs to a slippery slide, we wearied ourselves. As we left the water park the effects of the sun's violent rays were realized.
My brother, in disillusioned tongue questioned us whether we'd like to get dinner together en route to our homes.
We nodded emphatically because words were beyond us by then.
And that is how we ended up at the Italian's place.
The beautiful waitress with her buxom good looks cast her spell on us.
"What can I get you all to eat?" she quizzed, the persuasion in her gaze burning through me.
"Pizza? Pasta? Salad? Garlic Bread? A pitcher of draft beer? Spicy hot wings?..."
Her recommendations were like daggers that we couldn't deflect.
And so, as it were, we ended up with all of the above decadent choices on our table.
Like ravenous cavemen we imbibed in the sinful feast that lay before us.
It was Heaven.
It was Hell.
At least one of my comrades had to un- do a button while eating.
I was so intent on slaying the mountain of food before me that I hardly had time to breathe.
Why?
Why do the Italians hate us so much?
Why must they use fresh tomatoes and crisp lettuce in their salads?
Why must their pastas have that peppery flavor I adore so much?
Why is their pizza so cheesy and delectable that I've been fantasizing about it since we left the place?
The diet was officially null and void. My distended belly was angry and elated all at once.
I was in a state of euphoria but felt the guilt of knowing hours on the treadmill couldn't erase the damage the Italians had done, with weeks still left in bikini season.
I only take solace in knowing I was not to blame for my weakness.
I blame the The Others.
I Blame the Italians.
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