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The Sicilian Diet
Dear Aunt Maude,
I am still working hard to combat my
obesity, although I am still some four hundred pounds above my
ideal weight.
My efforts to bring to justice those
responsible for my weight continue. I have successfully sued four
international burger chains, two major cola manufactures and
eighty-nine cake shops. As my barrister has pointed out many
times in court, no reputable publican would serve a drink to an
alcoholic who was obviously drunk, so why should the owner of a
patisserie sell cakes to me when I am too large to enter the shop
doorway. The fact that I often threatened to kill hostages is, in
my mind, no defence.
Successful litigation means that I never
have to work again and can have all the food I want delivered.
This has obviously caused my weight to rise further. I blame my
barrister, and am suing him for negligence in winning so many
cases.
I have also tackled my weight directly. I
have tried three hundred diet plans, each as useless as the last.
I had high hopes for the ‘Techno-diet’. This required a
computerised surgical implant in each leg. Such implants
automatically register weight and, if it is not within programmed
limits, cause pain in proportion to the excess weight - pain that
can only be controlled by morphine. The implants are also
impossible to remove without amputation of the limbs.
The fact that I am now addicted to morphine
and a double amputee is another matter being addressed through
the courts. I admit, however, that there was an encouraging
weight loss as a result of the amputations, although, as usual, I
have put it all back on again!
I am now trying the ‘Sicilian Diet’.
I have paid a million pounds to a company based in southern Italy
- a special offer I couldn’t refuse. I have given them a
list of my dearest and closest relatives and, if I do not reach
my weight targets, they murder each in increasingly gruesome ways.
As one of my dearest and closest relatives, I hope you don’t
mind that I included you on the list along with Aunt Ruby, Uncle
Jack and Cousin Celia.
This brings me to the first purpose of this
letter. I am very sorry to have to tell you of the untimely and,
indeed, horrible deaths of Aunt Ruby, Uncle Jack and Cousin Celia.
I had been determined I would control my
weight before your name reached the top of the list, and I want
you to know that I had been succeeding. Then that damned
irresponsible, local supermarket began a ‘two for the price
of one’ offer on blocks of lard. There’s something
about the flavour and texture of lard which is just irresistible,
isn’t there?
Anyway, I will see you soon, but we
probably won’t have much of a chance to natter as Luigi, my
‘personal body mass consultant’, will be disembowelling
you in front of me.
Sorry.
Cheryl.
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