“A fat paunch never breeds fine thoughts.”— St. Jerome, 340-420 A.D. 

I’ve always embraced the word, “Gluttony.” It reminds me of a peaceful seaside village in the south of France where the men wear berets and the women go barefoot. Not that I’d ever visit France, at least on purpose. But if I did, I could see myself, in an old Citroen convertible. I’d be be-scarfed. Like Pat Boone.  I’d pull over on a sunny dirt road to ask a peasant: “Pardon moi. Donde esta ‘Gluttony?’”

The farmer would smile, exposing malformed teeth, and point. “Down ze road, Monsewer.”

Gluttony strikes me as a nice name for a Rubenesque twin who lives in Palmdale. Her sister, Tiffany, the thin one, gets all the boys. When their mother calls them in after a day of playing in the hot desert, she would holler:  “Ohhhhhh, TIFFANY!! GLUTTONY!! Come in, daughters! You’re dinner is on! It’s POSSSSS-SUUUUMMMM!!” Tiffany would run so bunny-rabbit fast, through the open patio door. Gluttony would plod along, sweating profusely, as if she were about to suffer a heart attack at 9.

I’ve been thinking of Gluttony. Of the Seven Deadly Sins, it ranks up there as a favorite.

I remember a few years back the fine people at Kraft Foods, makers of Oreos, Mallomars, Chips Ahoy and other members of the basic food group of Dessert considered striking a blow against Gluttony.

That would be the unquenchable hunger.

Not the French village nor the portly Palmdale twin.

Kraft announced that, in an attempt to help people battle obesity, they were going to reduce their portions in many of their products.

And really. Isn’t that what Gluttony is all about? Portions?

Kraft also promised they were going to offer healthy recipes, encourage people to exercise and stop promoting their foods where children congregate.

I can just imagine a guy in a trenchcoat, hanging around a schoolyard. He flashes open his coat and he’s got little packets of Oreos taped everywhere.

How did they rethink the Oreo?

I pondered that. Would they make it from broccoli? Or perhaps they’d just shrink it and add more packaging around a new cookie the size of a dime. That’s exercise — wrestling with a plastic cover wrapped tighter than a  dance outfit on a later-to-be-named local high school spirit team. Opening individual Oreos will also cause the Glutton to expend more calories between cookies. Not that I’ve ever done this, but I’ve heard of people who could fit 47 Oreos in their mouths. They’d take a swig of milk — directly from the container, I’m told — chew, swallow, offer a dazed smile and sigh, then start the process all over again.

Would Kraft print warnings on their packages?

“This 3,046-ounce package of Oreo Cookies has over 1 billion calories. If you eat this bag in one sitting, you’ll get a rush Jimi Hendrix only dreamed of. And, you’ll die. Oreo free, to ride the breeze. Oreo free, to do what I please…”


“Smoking Oreos can cause cancer in laboratory rats.”

Laboratory Rats. A good garage band name.

I do have questions about Kraft’s syntax. If I were, for some strange reason, to smoke an Oreo cookie, how could that result in a laboratory rat somewhere coming down with cancer? Is it part of that “We’re all One with the Universe” thing?

What kind of world have we become if the wonderful Oreo People have to stencil warnings on their cookies? And isn’t it crazy that a cookie maker is coming up with a marketing ploy that asks the public not to eat their product? Why don’t they just eliminate several layers of middle management and hang a sign on their factory front door stating:


“Go Away, Damn You.

We Have No Cookies.”


Do you know what I enjoy doing?

I like to braid my hair and go to Chamber of Commerce mixers. I like to take two Oreos and wedge them over my eyes. I like to sway back and forth and shake people’s hands and say: “Hello. I’m Stevie Wonder. I’m very superstitious. Writing’s on the wall. Rrrrrraaaaa-oooooowwww.”

I salute the fine people at Kraft Foods and their oddball corporate hara-kiri approach to eliminating obesity in a single generation.

Of course, you know what I always say.

Oreos don’t kill people.

People kill people.

And I guess one could, with a big enough Oreo.

(SCV author John Boston also writes The Time Ranger & SCV History for your SCV Beacon. He’s has earned more than 100 major awards for writing, including being named, several times, America’s best humor, and, best serious columnist. Don’t forget to check out his national humor, entertainment & swashbuckling commentary website, America’s Humorist — http://www.johnbostonchronicles.com/) — © 2017 by John Boston. All rights reserved.

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