The Prairie Spy

Alan “Lindy” Linda

It’s time to write my New Year’s resolutions. 

Let’s do ones that have a good chance of success, like: I’m not going to father any more children. I know, I know. I’m really old. However.

By definition, it is a legitimate resolution, and I list it in good faith. Fat chance I’ll blow this one.

I’m not going to read my horoscope in the newspaper anymore; nor am I going to pay any attention to their Zodiak signs, especially the ones that I don’t really like anyway. According to astrologists, I should have been rich or famous by now.

The Chinese Zodiak, now, that’s going to take some effort to give up. They’re amazingly accurate when they predict some of their stuff, and as someone who was born under the sign of the Monkey who has lots of friends (I used to, anyway.), who looks good (I do, I do.), and uses humor constructively (Did I tell you the one about the nun and the rabbi?), they’re pretty hard to resist. They also say I’m manipulative, which I find hard to believe. (Can I borrow twenty bucks.)

Anyway, that stuff is all behind me now. Trust me.

I’m pretty sure that, next time I buy a different car, I’m not going to take it right out on the straightest piece of blacktop road that I can find and open it up to see how fast it will go. As new resolutions go, this will be a tough thrill to break. Ever since I was 16, I’ve enjoyed seeing how fast different cars will go. They fool you. You never know. Some cars are pathetic, and show by their speedometers that they’ll go a hundred miles an hour, but really poop out somewhere around 90. Some digital speedometers go crazy once you get them way over their little computer-programmed limit.

Once I realized that I had lived through that insurance-industry high-risk age bracket of 16 to 25 years of age, I figured my destiny apparently isn’t to die trying to see how fast a car will go. I certainly gave destiny enough chances during those years to take me. Now, though, in the same way that heights seem higher, fast speeds seem faster. Maybe I’ll resist this desire next time, and instead read a good book.

I need to construct a resolution regarding dieting, and staying in shape, and being fat. Now that nearly two-thirds of the American public is formally described as fat, I’m worried that I’ll be left out. Join any group of people, and next thing you know, they’re talking about the Atkins diet, the eat-for-your-blood-type diet, the raw food diet, the low-carb diet, the boiled egg diet, the vegetarian diet. I’ve never been on a diet. I don’t have much to say.

Pretty soon, they’ll be looking at me with some disdain, and thinking stuff like: “Let’s ignore him. He’s been skinny his whole life, and doesn’t know what it’s like to be fat.”

Resolution: I’m not going to use the word “fat” anymore.

To be part of this dieting group, I’m going to get fat obese so I can go on a diet, and be accepted by my  friends. This does pose some problems. One is that there are no groups whose motto is: “Join us. Gain fifty pounds and feel better.”

I could perhaps call up Weight Watchers and ask if they can help me put on a few pounds. “I feel so thin,” I could say to them. “I feel left out,” I could say to them. “I feel like life is passing me by.” “I’m tired of being small boned.” “I have a glandular problem.” “Just because I was thin when I was little, does that mean I can’t be fat big now?”

Being fat large will mean my cars won’t go as fast as they could have before I put on the extra weight, but my car insurance should go down once I call my lady insurance agent up and say: “How much of a reduction in my policy cost can I get for being fat huge and slow?”

Happy new year.