Wednesday, October 22, 2008  Detox or Die Trying  My body is a
temple that each summer is desecrated by Mr. Sam Adams; his
London buddy, Mr. Gordon; and assorted hangers-on. Thus, with a
chill in the air signaling the end of elastic-waistband shorts,
I knew it was time for something radical.   Not Betty Ford (that
would be "rehab" for those scorin' at home), but a detox diet.
Get all the poisons out of the ol' system, reinvigorate the ol'
noodle and recover all the randomly dropped "d's" and "g's" in
my writin'. Maybe I'll even lose a few pounds and be worthy of
the post-Jenny Craig Valerie Bertinelli. Rrrrowl.  Someone I
trust recommended a best-selling three-week regime. This person
lived to tell, so it must be a winner.  Then I read the detox
details.  People, be leery of a 200-page book in which 126 pages
are testimonies from Twinkie-stuffed bozos. Fred flippin'
Flintstone, I didn't pay $24.95 (plus tax in you liberal,
unpatriotic, unreal-American states) to hear about your
problems!  Next, be suspicious