The Robot Man

     There’s a guy in the side room at the club who hogs the robot machine.  This guy, Robot Man (Gort?), doesn’t play with hominids – he only plays against the robot.  Day in, day out, always with the robot.  So, I asked this guy, doesn’t it get boring only playing against a machine spitting  balls at you the same way 30 to 50 times a minute?   And ya know what he said?  He said, Absolutely not!  And I love her.  Yes! He said her anthropomorphically.  Apparently he thinks the robot machine is alive … and that he has a romantic relationship with it.  Scary!  It’s freaking me out.  

     When I went into that room to retrieve a ball that had accidentally gotten beyond the barrier curtains of my table the other day, he was in there, of course, and I overheard him talking out loud.  He was talking to the machine, can you believe it!  And what he said was stupefying.  He said nice shot!  Are you hearing this?  He said nice shot to a ping pong robot after he missed a ball fired at his back hand.  And then I heard him say too good (!) when another ball went flying past him on the forehand side.  (Apparently the guy had the machine on the random mode.)  Now, I didn’t stick around to see if he kissed or hugged the head of this ball-chucking  contraption, but I wouldn’t put it passed this nut to do it. 

     Here’s the source of the difficulty, the crux of the matter:  the Robot Man just won’t relinquish the use of the table.  He monopolizes it.  That’s a real problem for Ping Pong Parkinson, because our members enjoy using the robot as one of the rotating stations during the main ping pong segment of our sessions.  If Gort is practicing his flick – or, possibly,  making  love to the apparatus – it’s impossible to get in there and practice.  So, I have counseled our group to recite these secret words  which should work to have him vacate the machine for a while:  “Klaatu Barada Nikto,”  (It’s robotspeak.)  If that incantation doesn’t work, I’ve instructed our ‘Pongers’ to get a bat, a golf club or a sword or a nightstick, and go in there and threaten this guy to vamoose for a half hour.  And I’ve also instructed the group to be sure  not to tell Robot Man that I sent them in there with all those weapons, because … well,  I can’t run that fast anymore.   I mean that guy is spooky!  And if he finds out that I was saying bad things about his girlfriend  (that she don’t kiss too good) somethin’ awful might happen to me.  Lao Du        

The Little Old Lady From Pasadena

     I ran into an old volunteer from PPP who was visiting the club the other day. This little old lady from southern California was playing ping pong, and I noticed that she was hitting the ball flat – just blocking the ball back to her opponent.  I had played with and instructed this woman some time ago, and was taken aback by the fact that she was not hitting the ball the way she’d been taught … by me.  I was offended.  I was indignant.  But I wasn’t gobsmacked. (I don’t get gobsmacked that easily.)  All that time I’d spent in trying to show this person how to hit the damn thing, and now she ends up like she’s been playing in a subterranean basement for a full pandemic year against her preschool grandchildren.  Made me sick.  But not gobsmacked.  

     Okay, so then maybe I put my nose into where it wasn’t welcome – I gotta big mouth, what can I tell ya.  So, while she was playing, I told her she couldn’t control the ball the way she was hitting it, unless she was playing with some newbie pushover, like maybe one of her grandkids.  Was just presenting the facts.  (Just the facts, ma’am, just the facts – Sargent Friday, Dragnet).  But then all of a sudden, I get hit with a savage tirade.  I should leave her alone, she says, because she’s only playing for fun and I (me) could never latch on to that concept!   Can you believe the ingratitude and the extraordinary brazenness flowing outta this granny?  Ah, well.  Listen I was only trying to help. 

     Editor:  I think I’ll surprise some of you, by saying that this is one time when I personally have to show some approval by supporting our zany blogger, Lao Du, with his little vignette.  This is not to say that he was correct in his intrusive approach to this erstwhile Ping Pong Parkinson volunteer, who only declared that she was interested in having fun. That’s well and good. There’s nothing wrong with fun; it’s an appropriate goal – for that woman … but not for People with Parkinson’s Disease.  Fun is a necessary component of our endeavors at PPP also, but by itself  it’s not sufficient to accomplish what Ping Pong Parkinson has set out to do.  May I remind you that our goal, our mission in a nutshell, is to promote the production of dopamine through the research-proven concept of neuroplasticity  and neurogenesis – the brain’s capacity to make new neurons and connections through challenging physical exercise.  The emphasis here is on the word challenging, and that, as it relates to ping pong, means always learning new skills.  It means learning how to impart topspin and loops.  It means cutting the ball, imparting underspin with pushes and chops.  It means thinking about strategy and evaluating  what your strengths are and figuring what your opponents weaknesses might be.  And it means countless (endless) other skills involved in playing ping pong.  There should never be a time at PPP when we rest on our laurels and do nothing further to improve, because standing still gets us nowhere.  Besides, new skills will enrich us, and promotes … fun! 

     PPP will recommence on 5 May.  Welcome back. 

A Weighty Matter

With my Pfizer vaccinations secured a few months back, I felt reassured that I could finally venture out and do some shopping for Ping Pong Parkinson.  The Chief (Nenad Bach) had given me an assignment to buy some weights because  research strongly suggests that weight training is an important method for targeting  the motor symptoms of Parkinson’s disease. 

     Okay, so I went into Walmart’s looking for free weights. The greeting guy near the front door pointed to where his co-workers were standing and said you’ll find the dumbbells there.  On hearing this, I was offended, and told him it wasn’t nice to say bad things about other people,  just because they were stupid.  I went over to where those dumbbells were anyway, and asked the one who looked the least dense where I could find the free weights.  He looked at me quizzically, and told me straight out that they didn’t have any free weights, that you had to pay for them.  That’s what the dumbbell told me, can you believe it?  I then took a chance and asked another guy standing next to the first dumbbell guy another challenging question:  Could he please tell me where I could find a medicine ball?  He told me that as far as he knew, that they had no formal dances at that particular Walmart location.  

     I was aghast!  Look, I know NASA has been looking for intelligent life in our galaxy, but don’t you think it would be prudent if they started their search at a neighborhood Walmart first?  I mean, c’mon!  Well, anyway, completely disenchanted,  I’m headed over to Target to see if they have any resistance bands.  I hope they don’t steer me over to their music department.    Lao Du

How To Win At Ping Pong If You Stink – Lao Du

     I had just beaten a ping pong player who accused me of cheating 10 times in one game.  I told him that these malicious allegations were ridiculous – that I usually only cheat half as many times as he was charging.  And what he was saying was even more absurd, I told him, because the truth is I only cheat when I’m losing. 


     If you really wanna know, I used to have more success cheating when I played tennis.  On a tennis court, the opponent is light years away from you and the net will protect you when you call his ball out when it lands on the line. (If the guy is a big bruiser, you’ll have a few seconds head start to run away.)  In ping pong, on the other hand, when the ball hits the table you have to be a very nervy liar to call the shot “out”.  I mean I’ve done it (less than 5 times in a game, mind you), but it really has to be a low skimming shot to get away with that.  (And don’t say the ball was only an inch out.  With conviction, say it missed by a mile.)


     No, but it’s much easier just to cheat on the score.  If the opponent doesn’t announce the score after each point – i.e., he trusts you – than you’ll have an ample opportunity in taking him to the cleaners.  A couple of points added for you that way should give you your margin of victory for the match if the competition is close (has to be an integer of at least plus two from the correct score – four is best – otherwise you’ll really get the serve order screwed up and the opposing player is likely to call for an umpire … or a hit man).


      There are other sensible ways of violating the rules constructively, as well.  For example, if you return a serve into the net or bat it off the table, just tell the sucker on the other side of the table that it was a net ball.  What’s he gonna do, call you a cheat?  Just laugh at the doofus, and tell him what a sore loser he is.  Just don’t be defensive about it – that’s part of the positive mindset required to be  successful at doing this sort of stuff.


     One of my best methods at winning by hook or crook, is to call a let because of a distraction when you’re about to lose the point. This distraction could be a ball or a person moving nearby, or it could be based on a ball or person moving on Mars.  Just tell the guy you’re playing to replay the point, and if he’s fair-minded and honest (there are a few of these idiots around), he’ll succumb and consent – because it’s the right thing to do (remind him of this so that he can glorify in his rectitude). 


     If none of these methods I’ve outlined above work for you, then you’ll have to revert to one of my tried and true methods that are 100 % reliable.  Of course, this will mean a modest expenditure for either banana peels or ball bearings, either of which should be scattered on the floor of your opponent’s side of the table.  Lao Du

PD: Webinar

     This question came up on a recent Webinar conducted by Nenad and PPP:  Is small handwriting a way of diagnosing Parkinson’s Disease?  Well, it was an interesting observation made by Mr. Cohen, a handwriting expert, because micrographia (small or minute handwriting) is a very common sign in PD.  According to Parkinson’s News Today, over 65% of patients diagnosed with the disease exhibit this condition.  However, it must be said, that having this one sign does not constitute sufficient grounds for making the diagnosis.  In medical parlance, micro writing is not pathognomonic for PD.  (An example of a pathognomonic disease is measles.  If you have Koplik spots – little white spots on the insides of your cheeks – than you have measles. There is no equivalent sign in PD.)

     The cardinal signs for Parkinson’s include tremor, bradykinesia, stiffness and postural instability.  Not everyone with PD has all of these and, of course, the severity of each can vary tremendously from patient to patient.  Additionally, there are a host of other non-movement signs and symptoms which can manifest, making  each patient almost unique in his/her presentation.  Just as there are “Eight million stories in the Naked City,” everyone with Parkinson’s is different.

     Unfortunately, there is no one particular  laboratory test for Parkinson’s Disease.  A neurological exam and a thorough review of each person’s history must be conducted by a physician in order to come up with a reliable and accurate diagnosis.   A.D.

Call For Bloggers

Editor:  Lao Du has been responsible for most of the blog entries for Ping Pong Parkinson since its inception.  Mostly, these blogs have consisted of rants and diatribes revolving around his strong distaste for…  well, everything , and they all have been mostly pointless and inanely foolish.  Occasionally he has tiptoed into Parkinson’s Disease topics, but only tangentially.  For the most part, his flapdoodle and screwy-hooey has revolved around sandpaper ping pong and his bountiful ill-will directed at the bane of his existence:  the ITTF (the International Table Tennis Federation).

      But here’s the matter at hand:  Lao Du is a volunteer at Ping Pong Parkinson, but he is not a “Ponger” (i.e., he does not have Parkinson’s Disease).  It’s time, well overdue, that we should have People with Parkinson’s (PwP) write about their own personal experiences from their own unique points of view, and to share their stories, impressions, ordeals and achievements with our expanding group.  It would also be refreshing to hear what criticisms or favorable comments they might offer.  Thus, starting now, we are officially soliciting blog submissions from any and all members of Ping Pong Parkinson.

     (Note:  I will be forced to allow Lao Du to write about satanic pedophiles and alien abductions if we do not get any responses.  And while we are waiting for our first real blogs to come in, I have permitted one last fanciful, mentally aberrant offering from our resident  heretic. )

True Grit:  Sandpaper

     Look at that white thing flying on that table!  It’s a plane.  No, it’s a comet … No, it’s  a meteor.   Wait, wait, it’s off the table now and it’s slowing up.  Holy smokes, will you look at that thing spinning on the floor like a gyro!  Hey, how ‘bout that – it’s a Xushaofa 3 star, ITTF approved, 3.7mg, 40 mm+ ping pong ball.  Jeese, it was moving so fast – I thought it was some kind of celestial body moving through the universe, making a temporary visit to Table # 2 at the Westchester Table Tennis Center before exiting the solar system.  Could hardly see that sucker.  Good gracious!  What the heck could propel such an object at such staggering speed and spin?  Hold on, there’s only one guy who could answer that question. No, not Einstein; he couldn’t tell ya. No, the only guy who knows the answer … is the equipment vendor at our ping pong club.

     Okay, I just talked to the equipment guy, and now I know, too, how that ball reached supersonic status: Someone hit that ball with a Donic Bluestorm Z1 Turbo.  That’s a surprise, actually, because my initial suspicion was that it was launched by a Saturn Five rocket (it’ll get you out of Earth’s orbit if you aim it correctly). 

     Can I tell you somethin’?  I have lived among table tennis players for some time now.  I have seen them up close and have learned of their quirks and idiosyncrasies.  And all of this has not improved my considered opinion that they are mostly techno freaks interested mostly in speed and spin.  Most of ‘em just want to murder the ball.  You wanna know something? That is a misdirected goal with only a fleeting reward. “Fun”  (with a capital ‘F’) should be the main pursuit of all  ping pong players,  except for the most venal and vacuous among us, who only wish to record victories in their personal diaries.   (Editor: Hint: Lao Du keeps a diary.)

     But here’s the question that arises concerning all of this:  Can you have fun without rubbers that cost 75 bucks each, and that you have to replace every few weeks?  Can you have fun without 2 millimeters of sponge covering a Butterfly Zhang Jike Super ZLC  table tennis blade that costs $569.99 (not including the tax)? Do we really need 7 plywood layers interbedded with a few carbon laminations? And do you really need a sweet spot wider than your rear end?  The answer, my friends, lies mainly in … the hands of the misguided ITTF.  Who are they, you may ask?  They are, in fact, the rulers of the universe – that is, the Table Tennis universe.  They lay down the rules from their Mount Olympus (the Greek gods live with them up there) near their posh retreat in Lausanne, Switzerland.  They lay down the law.  That law, unfortunately, does not involve FUN.  It does not include sandpaper. 

     I ask you:  Have you ever tried to play with a sandpaper racket? Well, don’t knock it until you try. Your dimples will suddenly appear while you’re playing (i.e., a smile), because you’ll have longer rallies.  You will begin, once again, to love your neighbors and your enemies.  You will find that there’s a glow about you as you forgive others who have betrayed and treated you badly.  The Holy Spirit will come upon those that renounce the sponge and take up ping pong as it was really meant to be played.  (3M ProGrade 150 or 220 grit sandpaper at Home Depot – less than a dollar a sheet)  Lao Du

PPP: Volunteering

Ya know, I’m getting real tired of those birds I feed every morning.  Bunch of ingrates.  Here I go out and spend over 32 bucks for a sack of black oil sunflower seeds every month – the ones they love the most, the best for their health (high fat content) and the most expensive – and you’d think they’d be grateful.  Nope!  No gratitude, not even when there’s snow on the ground and they can’t find anything to eat anywhere.

  I don’t expect much, really I don’t.  Is it asking too much for a titmouse to occasionally land on my shoulder when I’m next to the feeder, and chirp a few thank yous into my ear?  When I whistle  the sounds of a Black-capped chickadee, wouldn’t you expect a few courteous replies from one of those empty-bellied, starving little avians?  I mean as a show of appreciation.  Nope!  Never happens. And those nuthatches.  Jeese, the nuthatches!  I’ve never known a batch like those  upside down boobies!   Just a bunch of ungracious, disrespectful and inconsiderate frickin’ birds.  All of ‘em!   And if you think the cardinals, sparrows  and woodpeckers are any better – Fohget It!  In fact, they’re worse.  Ya know what they do?  They wait for me to leave the area around the feeder before they greedily go for the free food I’m donating.  And then they fight among themselves.  I’m tellin’ ya, it’s a shameless gluttonous spectacle… that I’m payin’ for.  Jeesh!

Editor:  Lao Du, aren’t you missing something here?

Lao Du:  Yeah, I’m missing something, all right.  I’m missing  the word thanks from the thankless.

Editor:  That’s not what I’m getting at.  See, the gift of giving is actually in the giving.

Lao Du:  Oh, real profound!  Hey! What kinda crapola are you feedin’ me here? Whatta you Confucius or somethin’?

Editor:  No, I’m serious.  You should consider this. You’ve got an open mind, right?

Lao Du:  Me?  Of course, don’t be silly.  Nobody is as open-minded as me. 

Editor:  Well, then listen to what I’m going to tell you about the admirable qualities and rewards that come from giving freely of money, material things, and yourself – the latter of which is a form of volunteerism.  Those birds you feed – you may not be aware of this – but you actually receive plenty of benefits from them.  They’re like your pets.  When you see them, I know you’re less depressed and not feeling the loneliness that the pandemic has foisted upon most of us.  And precisely, in an analogous way, your volunteering for Ping Pong Pong Parkinson – you’re still doing that, right?…

Lao Du:  Yeah.

Editor:  … that also provides you with a host of benefits that I’m sure you’re not even aware of.

Lao Du:  I thought I was volunteering for PD people (PwP).

Editor:  Sure, but you’re probably getting more out of it than they are.

Lao Du:  How’s that?

Editor:  It’s the social interaction, the companionship – it’s good for your brain.  And get a load of this: There are a whole bunch of studies that report that people volunteering to help others live longer. 

Lao Du:  No kidding? For real?

Editor:  Yes, absolutely for real.  Why? I know you’re going to ask me that, so I’ll tell you:  Because it gives you a raison d’etre.

Lao Du:  Raisons ets??  What’s that, some kind of chocolate candy?

Editor: No, no, no!   It’s English from French.  It means you have a reason to exist – a purpose.  You know – a life with meaning.  When you help others, believe me, you are also a beneficiary. 

Lao Du:  What kind of fish is that?

Editor:  You’ll live longer, okay?  Just leave it at that.  Yes, just tell all the people who volunteer to play ping pong  at PPP that they’ll live longer.

Lao Du:  Yeah, yeah, yeah, fine.  But what am I gonna do about those frickin’ birds?

Self-Haircuts and the Pandemic

I have been giving myself haircuts ever since this pandemic began. I’ve nicked my ears – both of them – a few times, and once my scissors actually went in quite deeply. If I hadn’t had any duct tape around when this happened, I might have surely exsanguinated. I’m tellin’ ya, I came close to cutting my ear off – not that I was trying to be beat out Van Gogh in that department or anything (although I can draw better than he could).

This self-haircut stuff is definitely not advisable. I base this conclusion on not just this recent personal quarantine experience where all of my coifs could be termed ‘hatchet jobs.’ Yeah, it turns out this wasn’t the first time I’ve had a problem. When I was a kid, oh, maybe 7 or 8 years old, my old man decided this one Sunday morning that he’d give me a haircut. Now I had never gotten a haircut from anyone other than a Sicilian and with the Italian crooner music going on in a barber shop, and when I saw my father limbering up his fingers by going snip snip in the air with those large silver blades from my mother’s sewing kit scissors, I was starting to get nervous. Real nervous. And he wasn’t calming me any by directing his cautionary ‘not to worry’s’ to my mom alone – not to me! He went even further with his reassurance that he was going to use a bowl. Wasn’t very reassuring to me, but then he repeated to my mom that she shouldn’t worry because the kid (presumably me) had a hat. He was referring to my Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap. Now I didn’t quite understand what the bowl was for exactly, but my intellectual development at the time was sufficiently adequate to grasp the significance of the hat. And, man, I was shaking. Real nervous. And, of course, do I have to tell ya that I was forced to wear my Dodger hat for several weeks following this atrocity. My head was ravaged. A genuine hatchet job! And I still don’t know what the hell that bowl was all about.

Anyway, my advice to any of you ‘do-it-yourselfers’ in our Ping Pong Parkinson group, is that you let your wife or some other trustworthy person cut your hair for you … and only if you have a Brooklyn Dodger hat. Also, if your Parkinson tremor is not well controlled, I would strongly recommend that you not attempt any self-circumcision at this time, either. Wait until you get vaccinated and then let a pro (who has a just-in-case tourniquet) do it. Lao Du

Ping Pong and the Pandemic – Mitigating the Risk (Don’t Play!)

Big day ahead of me today. No, it’s not the weekly arrival of the ShopRite flyer, it’s something almost as exciting as that. Oh, yeah, big, big, big day: I’m gonna water the plants! When I’m through doin’ that I’m gonna write on my calendar that I did it … and then I’m goin’ back to sleep. When I wake up I’ll have some of the food that I made a week ago that I have to eat today because there are blue moldy spots starting to form on the edges. See, I don’t want to waste the food …because, as you know, there are people starving in the world. Oh, boy, but there are hairs coming out of the mold, too. Jeez, never seen that before. I’ll have to do a little surgical excising to get rid of those parts. I’ll add it to the stuff I feed the birds and squirrels – they shouldn’t know much about micotoxins. (Don’t look at me like that – what, are they gonna throw up or get cancer? They don’t live that long, so don’t worry about it, okay?).

And, then, let’s see … Oh, yeah, I have to do the mail. I’ve got about three dozen bills sitting on my desk that I have to pay. You know, the cable and internet, the electric company, the oil delivery and a bunch of medical bills from my insurance company that are 5 pages long and that I can never understand. I should have done that – paid the bills, I mean – but up to now I’ve been playing ping pong at the club and didn’t have time. That’s right! Believe it or not, this ping pong addict aint playin’ nowadays.

So, you may be wondering why I’m not at the club anymore. I’ll tell you why: Fear. And Disgust. And some unadulterated bitterness and resentment mixed in with revulsion. It all relates to the fact that some fellow denizens of our ping pong world refuse to wear masks (or wear them incorrectly – under their noses or just on their chins). By refusing to follow Fauci, they pose a clear and present danger to all of us (including themselves).

I did try to tell many of these ping pong brethren to put their masks on, but the animosity engendered by my doing this was palpable. I could really feel the anger and, in fact, even see the hostility on their maskless faces. Well, okay, I could have been a little more tactful, but whatever wrong I was committing by my clumsy insensitivity paled before their double wrongfulness of potentially killing someone, so I’m only partially regretting how I behaved.

One thing I did do, though, which I don’t regret, was that I did earnestly, and with some persistence, bring this grave matter up with management. They listened courteously and seemed even to convey agreement with the need to implement the chief recommendations of the Public Health Service of the State of New York. But, disappointingly, didn’t happen, and I just didn’t feel like being the ‘mask police’ anymore. Turned out, I was talking to the wall and, what with the infection rates and death count spiking, I just figured the risk was even too much for this particular risk-taker. I’ll wait for the vaccine and, meanwhile …. I think I’m gonna let the air outta every bum’s car in the club parking lot who refused to wear a mask. Lao Du

Health And Other Nuts (Ed. More flapdoodle/screwy-hooey from Lao Du)

This crazy health nut, whom I’ve known peripherally for several years, comes over to me the other day and starts in with this phony flattery on how I know so much about ping pong – like I’m an expert or somethin’. And then he asks me out of the blue what size ping pong table should he buy? This is really freaky stuff. This guy apparently thinks ping pong tables come in different sizes and colors, and all. So, I look him over carefully to see if this is a joke. Maybe next he’ll be asking me if bacon is kosher? And last year he comes over to me, probably thinking I’m a gastroenterologist, proclaims he’s got “hard stools,” what should he do? I mean I thought maybe he was trying to pull my leg. But he wasn’t. No, he wasn’t. He was dead serious. I told him to sit on a sofa, that it was much softer. Anyway, I eventually told him to buy a ping pong table without a net so that he’d finally be able to hit the ball to the other side. Look, wasn’t my intention to openly disrespect the guy but, truth is, I never cared for this simple-minded shmuckeroo to begin with, so I just tried to dust him off.

Ya know, I’ve discovered that there are dummkopfs like this all over the place (maybe most of ’em have “hard stools”), that they only use their heads to keep their ears apart. (Editor: Lao Du remembers this so-called joke from 3rd grade.) Maybe you know somebody like this. This one was obsessed about his health. I think you know the type. No gluten or processed food for them, and lately they’ve begun to develop a preoccupation about their telomeres and oxidative stress. Seriously!

Where the heck do they get this junkola? From the public television gurus? ( From Dr. Phil? From Dr. Oz?) From the homeless walking down the Bowery? From some know-it-all at the ping pong club? (Ed. Maybe Lao Du.) I dunno, but it’s all mostly cock-a-doodle-doo. Take this major theme of the aforementioned lunkhead: processed foods. He says he doesn’t eat that. Baloney! (That’s right – he eats baloney, and baloney is processed food.) What’s wrong with a processed food such as rice? Nothin’ much. It aint gonna kill ya. I mean people eat rice all over the world – for eons! But this butthead is apparently so obsessed with his bowel movements that he won’t touch a grain of it. Thinks his intestinal transit time will be slowed.

Ya know what white rice is? Correct! It’s a grain and, yes, it happens to be a processed food. Sure, they may mill off some of the good parts of the grain – the bran and the germ – so what? Okay, okay, maybe you can’t move your bowels for a week and you’re losing the protein, vitamins and minerals and your gums are gushing blood. But, Bunky, you’re not dying. And it fills you up. And it tastes good. So just shut the heck up about preaching how bad it is. (You wanna go to the bathroom every now and then, just eat some prunes – I hear they’re good for that.) These people hang on to every word from those TV four-flushers. They pop vitamin C pills because they tell ‘em it’ll prevent the flu. (Nonsense – it prevents scurvy.) Whew! So au courant!

Listen, don’t believe all the junk you hear from these sages and the guy down the block who all of a sudden is explaining his obesity on the basis of food being “addictive.” Believe the doctors and scientists. Yeah, the keto diet is good – for people with epilepsy (it’s not a fad for those with convulsions). Yeah, gluten should be avoided … if you have celiac disease. Duh!

And, anyhow, why do all these people have these compulsive concerns regarding ‘slowing down aging’ and just living their lives for better bowel movements? Is that their primary focus? Come on! I’m telling you straight out that no amount of kale and blueberries and broccoli will make you a better ping pong player. Seaweed and probiotics aint gonna get you that coveted 2000 rating. All of that junkola, I tried it, okay? The polyphenols, the flavonoids – all the phytonutrients in the world – I tried it. (Editor: for one full day!) Guess what? Didn’t work. Before the invention of kale and baby arrugala, I seemed to be healthy enough with the iceberg lettuce and Wonder Bread. But, nowadays, you gotta go to those whole food stores to get the organic stuff without the pesticides. Nonsense! So, I decided to go back to Diet Coke and Cape Cod potato chips. You wanna know what happened? I was unbeatable! I was mowing down the bums that had started to beat me when I was on the antioxidants. I resumed my visits to Taco Bell and the IHOP (International House of Pancakes) – got me a foot high stack with plenty of that Aunt Jamima syrup. Turns out, my fiberless, high fructose, aspartame diet hit the spot. Par excellence. My forehand topspin smash returned to its former level of glory and magnificence, and my mood improved ( I was no longer calling every Joysey driver on the Saw Mill River Parkway a dumb bastard). Even my cognitive function was better (I remembered to bring out the garbage on time).

Bottom line: If you think that by eating a lot of berries you won’t get beriberi, then you probably subscribe to a Twitter feed recommending injected bleach for Covid-19. Lao Du
(Editor’s Note: I think we should bury bury Lao Du. Also note that a recent report published in the NYTimes has indicated that Vitamin C and Vitamin E are “tied to lower risk for Parkinson’s Disease.)

Support Us