The other night, I was out dancing at our town's hottest nightclub where I'm
well known as a man-about-town. After winning the disco contest and agreeing
to help the band out by singing a few songs, I noticed two absolutely
gorgeous blondes sitting at a table starring, seductively, in my direction.
I detached myself from my usual ring of adoring admirers, sauntered over to
their table and invited myself to sit down. Seeing me close up, they
immediately recognized me as a famous diabetic and invited me back to their
yacht. Once there, I lay back on perfumed cushions while they fed me peeled
grapes and plied me with Dom.  After an hour or so, we dismissed the blind
violinist and I could see by the look in their eyes, things were about to
get serious so, I quickly whipped out my "Diabetic's Guide" and turned to
the section on "Penile Dysfunction in Diabetics." Under the sub-section
"eating pizza" I found the notation, "you're not going to get lucky
tonight." Understandably, the girls were very disappointed and one of them
commented, "I bet you listen to Nicky, next time." Embarrassed, I excused
myself, ran to the car and sped home. Once home, I downed a whole bottle of
ALA and raced backed to the yacht. But, It was too late. They had sailed
away with some lawyer from Virginia.

I post this sad experience in reference to my recent comments about the,
relatively, insignificant damage caused by an (very) occasional pizza (pizza
being a metaphor for any rare splurge in an otherwise well controlled diet).
Being less than super-human, I'm forced to anticipate a backslide into
temptation at some low points in the future and I'm sure I'm not alone. As
embarrassing as the above experience was, I'm still not going to feel guilty
next time I can't stand it anymore and err into pizza. Instead, I'm
thinkin - penile implant.

John