Why I'm Like Bob Dole

Before Bob Dole broadcast his erectile disfunction in prime time, impotence was a shameful secret. His disclosure made it acceptable to publicly divulge not only one's sexual inadequacies, but one's physical, emotional, skeletal and hormonal failings as well. These confessions, which used to be considered "TMI," are usually used to sell a product, but they also have salutory effect of making us feel our problems are shared by others. As you may have guessed, I'm about to discuss a problem, little spoken of, but much experienced: the after effects of diet ice cream.
In the beginning was Skimpy Treat. Resembling ice cream, but having only fifty calories for twelve ounces, it was sold out of a tiny deli on 40th Street, midblock between Broadway and 6th Avenue. It came in twenty four ounce cups, forty eight ounce cups and sixty four ounce vats. Every day at noon, there was a line of fatties stretching from the door of the deli to Broadway. Except on Sex and the City, nobody buying diet ice cream is thin. I'd get the twenty four ounce, take a leisurely walk in the neighborhood, retire to my office, close the door and wait. Within fifteen minutes, the symphony began. Toot...toot...toot,toot,toot...toot, toot. Delicately put, an atonal twenty minute percussion and wind symphony. Because a twenty four ounce portion produced twenty minutes of cacophony, I never risked the forty eight ounce for fear of setting off an air raid siren. I suspected that the people ordering the sixty four ounce schissel were involved in the demolition business. On the days I had afternoon meetings,out of consideration for my colleagues, I ate an egg salad sandwich.
Sadly,for unknown reasons, Skimpy Treat disappeared. Fortunately, it was soon replaced by Tasi-D-Lite. Even better than Skimpy, Tasti, with eighty calories for a "small," tastes like Carvel. Because there are Tasti franchises all over Manhattan, there are no lines. It comes in 107 flavors and you can get it topped with chocolate fudge, rainbow sprinkles, heath bar crunch, peanut butter chips or even fruit, if you're feeling virtuous. I want it every day, but it requires planning. It would be inconsiderate to have it before dance class. One plie and I'd empty the room. It would be counterproductive to have it before an oral argument. Who would hear my voice? It would be insane to have it before a job interview. Need I say why? So I have it Saturdays on my way home from dance class. I'm sure I offend the cat, but he hasn't complained or moved out.
You may view my confession as TMI. You may view it as loony. I view it as a public service to those who have shared my pain and thought they were alone.