Sweet little nothings...

SO the other day I'm showing off my healthy eating kick on social media and note that I am having plain yogurt with cinnamon, nutmeg and sweetener stirred in and some home-made granola on top. That's when the madness began.

Now, in all fairness, I did get some cyber pats on the back for my efforts and a betting pool started on when I'd actually be able to see ALL of my anatomy again without having to lay down and prop my head up on a pillow. The over under is September, 2015. I feel encouraged already.

The madness was the number of posts I received warning me of the dangers of every sweetener known to man.  They sent dire warnings about my brain, pancreas, large AND small intestines and, of course, various cancers, tumors and early onset dementia.  Then came the links. I saw a link that said artificial sweeteners (ARTS, for short from now on, because I hate typing sweetener and it sounds cool) can cause depression. Who knows? Who cares? Why bother?

The one that got my attention the most-est the fastest was one that was titled "Are Artificial Sweeteners Ruining Your Sex Life?" Now to be honest, I was pretty sure this was bullshit since I've been drinking ARTS for the past 30 or so years and have humped like a bunny for the majority of them.  Now, if you told me over consumption of ARTS made you want to play "landlord and the late rent" or think of 90 naughty uses for vapor rub I'd completely believe it.

I think there was one about ARTS causing memory loss, but, listen, I'm 53 and have packed a lot of information, useless and otherwise into my head over the years. Like Brian Wilson used to compose with his piano sitting in a giant sandbox, so he could "feel the sand". Let me stop here to say that compose may be the right word, but it seems a bit pretentious for "Tack it up, Tack it up, buddy gonna shut you down." But I digress. I have also stored very useful information, like you have fewer accidents making right turns than left turns. This is why, after programming my in car GPS system for right turns only, it takes me a minimum of three hours to get to the liquor store. Getting home is even rougher; think about it. With all that valuable data swimming about my head, small wonder I forget a thing or two. Like my dogs names.

When you do every now and then get one of these dire warnings with a study attached, it is either from a Professor that teaches at Pentecostal Theological Institute of Bucharest or someone feeding rats the ARTS equivalent of you or I drinking 14 kegs of diet coke a day. I know it's not a new observation, but when I checked it out, damn it, it was true! These poor rats and mice that weigh less than one of our freaking feet get the same amount that comes a full liter of diet soda, repeatedly. Dear god, it's a wonder they don't have little saccharine aliens exploding out of them. 

So keep your bad news about my not eating "real" sugar, or GMO free 100% local honey made by bees who only get pollen from free range flowers to yourself. One step closer and I'll strap on a bag of Aspartame like oats for a horse and eat them until I am a eunuch with a bad memory and a basketball sized goiter on my neck.