The secret ingredient is death

Before I go to work at the oppressive citadel of customer service, I peer into my mail box, hopeful I will find a post regretfully informing me of the passing of a beloved, wealthy aunt or uncle who I had never met, but continuing on to tell me how I was their favorite nephew (despite circumstance having kept us from ever meeting) and how they had left me the bulk of their considerable wealth. Today, though, all I had were bills, the newest issue of a magazine I subscribe to, and some recipe cards.

I do not cook very often. Generally, I go into my kitchen long enough to pour a glass of milk. Still, I didn't immediately discard the recipe cards because I thought that they might come in handy some day when, in an attempt to fool some lovely thing into thinking I can cook, I might whip up a chocolate cake with my magical, non-existent cullinary powers. I looked through the cards, imagining sexual conquests through food preparation.

Until I saw creamy fettuccine alfredo.

The preparation and the ingredients involved seems normal enough, but then I glanced down at calories per serving. 1, 467! Jesus Christ! I could give a newborn congestive heart failure in one meal! And under the caption "Great Ideas," the recipe card's authors also suggest stirring in crisp bacon to create "a more hearty, robust dish." Oh, sure! Let's add a can of lard on top of that just to be sure that my arteries clog in one loving spoonful!

It wasn't bad enough that Martha Stewart was after my wallet. Now the people peddling recipe cards through the mail want my life.