In weeks past I’d been feeling the pressure of a busy schedule, and it had started to affect my health. Going to university classes a full two days a week had left me physically exhausted, mentally fatigued, and emotionally drained. Presumably I still exuded raw sexuality, but the Glade plug-ins I use to diffuse my testosterone aroma were weeks old and were still not in need of replacement: an indicator that my libido may have been taking a hit as well. Losing my masculine incorrigibility was not a prospect I was prepared to entertain, but I couldn’t just up and quit school. Perhaps there was more to my decay than pushing myself too hard?  I recalled the tragic situation of a friend, let’s call him “my roommate Steven Thomas Mucci,” who contracted ebola from a vitamin deficiency. “Forsit,” I mused, “my problems arise from a substandard diet?” I immediately put down my Latin dictionary by calling it fat and dashed to my university’s health center.
    Two hours and many leg cramps later, I finally made it all the way across the quad. The front desk of the health center excused my sweat and inappropriate panting save one lady, who thought I either had rabies or was about to hit on her. It was toward this fine specimen of a female that I directed my inquiry.
    “WHERE’S THE NUTRITION!?” 
    “Definitely rabies,” said her eyebrows, and she directed me upstairs. I gladly left the 1st-floor sea of disease and climbed, nay, transcended, to the top floor. Here there existed an entirely different caste of health care professionals. Jade plants, Medieval art, and Certificates of Appreciation adorned the hallways. I drifted my way over to see the campus nutritionist, only to find her post unmanned, err, unwomyned. Still pure of heart, I made an appointment with a charming woman who was specially equipped to handle such things. Her business card read, “Appointment Specialist,” and it’s true: she was pretty damn special. I left a message for the elusive nutritionist and departed, trying desperately to avoid contact with the mutants from Floor One.

    Minutes turned to hours and hours to days. My mouth dried, my palms cracked, and my groin ached (from the gym, Dirty McGutterhead). Then days turned to hours again and I received the Phone Call, the kiss of life I so desperately needed, mere moments after returning home.
    “Hello, this is the campus nutritionist, is this Dan?”
    “Yes! Thank God!”
    “So you’re wondering about the effects of an all Ramen, Spaghetti-O, and coffee diet?”
    “That sounds really silly when you read it.”
    “Yes…”
    I assured her it was a real problem. At 12 cents a pop, Ramen is cheaper than dog food. And I need coffee to keep me awake through boring phone calls. I hoped our conversation would leave Yawnsville soon, otherwise I was hanging up.
    “Well, I could talk for quite a while about issues with that diet,” Finger…creeping...toward…End Call, “but in a nutshell, it could pose weight problems and increase risk for developing disease states.”
    I told her, “New Jersey’s been developing for years, so what?” ZING! After tearing The Garden State a new one, I realized what she meant. Perhaps, through enduring an agonizingly episodic account of Zach Braff’s childhood, I could reform my eating habits for good. It turns out, she just wanted me to keep a food journal before our appointment. This nutritionist was sending hella mixed messages, but she seemed to have a good head on her shoulders.
    The most useful thing I took was a lockpick, but the most useful thing I took from my talk with the nutritionist was a mandate to eat a varied and unprocessed diet. That seemed reasonable. I learned in high school that nature had prospered in the past from access to diverse resources, so I could probably increase my already considerable power tenfold with some whole grains and veggies. I put this revelation to good use and looked for second opinions on the matter.
    Nutrition.gov, the USDA's propaganda factory, shared my nutritionist's sentiments. Focus on fruits, vegetables, and low-fat foods. Consume less than 10% of calories from saturated fats? NO transfats? Those are in everything! Consume less than two drinks per day? This was beginning to sound like a lot of work, so I started looking for something to discredit them. I didn't have to look far, for their flagship, the New Food Pyramid, was fundamentally dumb. It seems they'd executed an extensive shakedown of the corrupt and prehistoric pyramidal infrastructure and turned it completely on its side. I'm no math major, but I'm no math minor, either. I know that shit is the same pyramid. Much like with the street magician of yesteryear (Blaine killed himself underwater, right?), a complex system of misdirection and smooth talking had tricked John Q. Public into eating this bullshit sandwich right up. Verdict? USDpwned!
    Having found the results I needed to support my assumption, I required but one oppositional voice to validate both the corruption of the USDA foodigarchy as well as my unwillingness to change my diet. In a conversation at the bus stop, one “Dr. Büz” agreed with my assessment of the situation and added that a strict regimen of red wine and 40z of Steely also decreases heart disease. After some intense questioning and less tense banter, I asked to see his credentials. “Budweiser University in Beersylvania”...that sounded pretty real. I thanked the good Doctor for his input, but I definitely couldn't afford an all-liquor diet. What to do?
    Depressing though it is, I started eating Ramen again. I'm eating it right now in fact, at home as you're reading. Jealous? It’s delicious as a Maundy Thursday cocktail. You see, after my brief but sleepless foray into investigative journalism (Dr. Büz keeps strange hours), I crashed for almost two days and awoke completely refreshed. I just needed more sleep! What a relief; my diet was flawless all along. My problem had been solved, but more than likely you, Gentle Reader, are still, as the French say, a fátty-fatty-boômalatty. Maybe we can all make an effort to eat less, eat better, and exercise more. One more thing: I spit in most of the dessert trays at the dining halls, so think twice about that next brownie. Because it has spit in it.