I’m approaching that age (30) where
exercise, vitamin supplements, and incessant dieting are advisable. But
my contrarianism is not just limited to social and political issues: I
say to hell with living healthily!
Despite my attempts to die young and reckless, I have made some
‘health-conscious’ changes in my lifestyle. I am particularly close to
my lifelong goal of subsisting on an entirely liquid diet. Admittedly,
this fluid-based regimen is devoid of the conventional protein and
nutritional shakes, but my doctor has—again—given me a clean bill of
For those who may ask what my secret is, here it is: My
supplements also are purchased over the counter and cost a quite a bit
of money, but they derive mostly from fermented grain, grapes, barley,
and sugar cane. The best thing is that my dietary supplements never
spoil, and seem to only improve with age—while the supposedly ‘healthy’
protein shakes and nutrient-rich meal additives taste half-passed
expired the moment you tear their packaging open and imbibe a mouthful
of the stuff.
And please tell me why the ‘healthy’ stuff is so
hard to consume? Those damn powders more readily end up on the counter
top than in the mixing vessel which they were intended for!
diet offers me much greater joy in reaching whatever old age I will
expire at than those tasteless diet food ever will. Not only that, but
my mealtime ingredients mix more easily and thoroughly with each other
and do not dirty the blender (in fact they clean it by killing off any
residual bacterial colonies with nature’s dual-purpose cleaning agent:
alcohol), sparing me the labour of cleaning the damn thing after every
By the way, by no stretch of the English language can
celery sticks and asparagus blended up in a glass of water ever be
called a meal! Thus, I regularly enjoy a full course meal (something no
dieter even knows exists): I start my feast with a few appetisers in the
form of shooters, move on to a main course of whiskey, rum, cognac,
bourbon, or craft beer, and then finish on a fruity note with several
ales, ciders, and the occasional box of wine. In between I snack on the
odd steak, crayfish, crab, pasta, pizza, sushi, etc.—real food, mind
you—and I’m a regular sight at buffets.
Usually such a spread is
enough to sustain me for several days—try doing that with your next
weightless ‘treat yourself’ meal: “Ooh joyous day, all the cabbage soup I
can eat!” – quoted, for I’ve never had to utter such a self-defeating
So, while those who restrict their education to the
self-improvement section of Huisegenoot are ruining their life
experience with pre-weighed, prepackaged meals made from donkey feed,
I’m partaking of the banquet of kings, wise men, and rock stars. I might
not be loved, respected, or revered for it, but nobody who truly enjoys
their life is every liked by those who prefer choosing the latest whip
fashioned for their backs.
Some may protest that my dietary
practices are not wholesome, and that I will not live to see 90 because
of it, but I pay no attention to such negative bunk. Being 90 and barely
cognisant (while supposedly being fit as a 40-year-old) is hardly
something I consider my life’s goal. I love my intellect too much to
allow that to happen to me!
I realized that death should entail
some suffering, after a Greek friend of mine passed some advice on to me
which he inherited from his dying grandfather (who lived to be well
over 90, mind you, and fit as an ox at it). Here is that golden nugget
of wisdom for all of you to ponder: “Don’t ever end up in a hospital,
dying from nothing”—and this from someone who smoked heavily and drank
furiously throughout his lifetime.
Though I hate to admit it,
it’s probably not the smoke and drink that preserved him so well. Most
likely it was the hard labour of his life spent chopping trees and
trekking up steep hills, logs back to his cottage, with the heavy logs—a
daily practice for many a Greek who still lives in the rural areas not
yet spoiled by the lethargy-inducing qualities of modern technology.
think this ‘healthy living’ fad is just as boring, dogmatic, and
joyless as any of the Abrahamic religions on offer, and I bet it was
started by people with the same mentality, that being the need to tell
others how they should live.
But sometimes I think this
modern-day preoccupation of ‘experts’ and major corporations telling us
to eat less, expect less, and be happy with less is just a replay of
what happened in India when cows were proclaimed sacred. You see, after
the leaders and gurus convinced the working-class population that cows
were sacred animals and not to be eaten, the telltale signs of deception
started showing: In times of drought, social unrest, or general
economic hardship, sanctuaries for the holy cows popped up almost too
conveniently. These sanctuaries were the abattoirs of the aristocrats
and spiritual leaders, who feasted on the cows while the general
peasantry barely fended off starvation.
Though I may suffer the
occasional hangover (if I really go for gold), most of the time I
experience no unpleasant side effects from drinking, and more readily
find entertainment in my surroundings and otherwise boring people, enjoy
better and prolonged sex as well as sleep more soundly while my
contemporaries who eat hay and drink chalk powder dissolved in water
look more dreary, exhausted, and agitated with every passing week. They
are all living ‘healthily,’ though I wish someone would tell that to
their appearance, because they look pasty, thin, and shaky! I can’t
imagine them making it far beyond 60 if they keep up their hunger
strike. (If you can endure such suffering, death has not much worse in
store for you.)
No matter how hung over I’ve been, nobody has
ever looked at me and asked if I am feeling ill (so I doubt I ever look
ill, despite feeling it). Most of the time my habit of drinking anytime I
please actually surrounds me with supportive people who tend to my
needs: My sweat-stricken brow often evokes urgency and preferential
service from the barman/bar lady staffing whatever pub I take refuge in,
but their assumptions that I am laboriously contributing to Singaporean
society is somewhat misplaced, as it is but my Caucasian genetics
poorly coping with the tropical heat that gives me my exhausted
To ensure that this article is not just another
rant discharged by me into cyberspace—and because most people do stupid
things while sloshed and need a list spelling out some guideline for
them to follow—here is some advice from me if you want to drink:
If you can’t drink, DON’T! The last thing we functional alcoholics need
is more bad publicity from you party-drinkers and attention whores who
can’t hold you liquor. If you are the type who sheds their clothes in
public or spoil for a fight after a few drinks, go drink in a strip
joint or a boxing club; I’m sure you’ll fit right in!
2. Never drink on an empty stomach, your turn a session of alcoholic love-making into a violent act of rape
Invest in a chauffeur if you intend to go out for a night of revelry in
town; your bloody guts strewn all over the road makes me disgorge my
valuable alcoholic nutrition as my driver inches his way past your gory
4. Stop telling someone like me how to
drink my whiskey or cognac! The nonsense you hear in pubs, at parties,
and in movies regarding drinking fine booze is usually bullshit. I take
my drinking very seriously (unlike some), and I would never consume a
pricey beverage in a way that subtracts from its quality
Do take advantage of drunken women with loose pants, but remember to
pay the child support for your half-clone, that child needs to grow up
and drink one day, as well
6. And lastly, don’t name any
new pets or newborn children whilst under the influence of alcohol.
Calling Jack Daniels and Tequila to supper is blerrie kommen man!
hate to disappoint, but I won’t be ending this piece on a positive
note. My closing words go out to those off-putting Nutritionists,
Dieticians, and otherwise Puritanical bastards seen on many a talk show
and read in numerous magazine columns. Stop trying to elbow your way
into our private lives, telling us that you know what’s best for us!
Statistically, you health-and-fitness freaks keel over and die from
common cancers, heart attacks, aneurisms, etc. at pretty much the same
rate as the Hedonistic members of society!
I choose to take my
health advice from someone demonstrated a fully functional intellect in
their lifetimes … someone like Christopher Hitchens with his bit of
health advice and contrarian wisdom:
“An apple a day, they
said in my boyhood, kept the doctor away. Yeah, that’s right — just
bathe your teeth in sugar water and acid and see what happens. Much
better to hurl the heartburn-inducing fruit into the trash and reach
firmly for the corkscrew, which was the strategy that I began to adopt
when I was about 15.”
Although Christopher Hitchens died of
esophageal cancer, please bear in mind that his father also died from a
similar cancer—suggesting a hereditary genetic curse rather than one
brought on solely by a debauched lifestyle.
So, perchance any of
you health-conscious freaks ever encounter me in a pub, swaying over a
drink, and feel the pressing need to ‘educate’ me about the perils of my
choices—consider my health advice to you and fuckoff!
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