It is a fact, universally acknowledged, that the better you are to your body, the worse it is to you. Eat total crap and you can eat anywhere you want. Suck down those fries. Gulp down those Big Macs. Your stomach is fine. It's seen all this shit before.

Eat a macrobiotic diet for a month or two, though, then try downing anything at Outback Steakhouse. You won't even have time to run to the restroom. "Unidentified substance approaching, captain!" screams your stomach's version of Scotty as part of a Bloomin' Onion slides by. "I've never seen anything like this before!"

"Calm down, Mr. Scott," the intestinal Captain Kirk will reply. "Flood all passages with acid and then shoot that bastard out the back hatch."

I don't understand it, and it's really pissing me off. I don't eat meat. I eat broccoli and brussel sprouts literally every day. Why can't my body show me a little gratitude? "Roman, my man, you've been so good we'll let that glazed donut slide by." Instead, I eat so much as a french fry and five seconds later it spits out the other side, like a warning from internal hijackers. I half-expect to see a tiny little note attached reading, "Try something like that again and next time we blow this shit up."

It doesn't make any sense at all. Every other guy in America goes to a carnival and chows down. He starts with a sausage and pepper sandwich, followed by a corn dog, a funnel cake, a beer and a milk shake. His body now contains more fat cells than human tissue, but he's fine because he's got his stomach trained. It buckles down to the task: "Okay, dudes, we've all dealt with fuckin' Cheez Wiz and Hot Pockets, for God's sake, so we can handle a few pounds of pulled pork and some goddamn sugary fried dough."

My stomach? Not a chance. "HOLY FUCKIN' JESUS!" it hollers at the sight of a nacho. "IS THIS PART OF A RACCOON?" It's been sissyfied. It does the internal-organ equivalent of jumping onto a chair and screaming until the food moves on.

I'm planning on eventually taking a vacation, which means I may have to eat at a restaurant that doesn't have "Rainbow" in the name. So, little by little I've been introducing my stomach to junk food. Yesterday I had a Pringle, and last night I took a bite of a frozen taquito.

The bad news is, now I've got fat seeping out of every pore on my body. The good news is, I can ice-skate on linoleum. I did a triple lutz on my way to the bathroom this morning, and let's see some Russian vegetarian beat that.