I pity the Presidential candidates. It's not easy being them.

For starters, they live on the road twenty-four-seven. A life of travel sounds exciting until you realize that most of the time they are ending up in desolate, barely civilized places like East Armpit, New Jersey, Rattlesnake Acres, Nevada, and Kansas City. (Special note to readers in Kansas City: Not your Kansas City ... the other one.)

When they arrive they have to pretend to enjoy the local cuisine. Again, sounds interesting until you find out the local cuisine includes Auntie May's special rutabaga bouillabaisse, pig snout sandwiches or haggis. (Special note to readers in Scotland: Not your haggis ... the other kind.)

No matter where they go, the candidates have to pose for photo ops wearing fixed smiles so rigidly indestructible that they can only be removed by specially trained teams of plastic surgeons. The other folks in these photos are always minor local celebrities like the Kumquat Queen, City Mayor or the Vice President of the United States. (Special note to readers who are Dick Cheney: Not you ... the other Vice President of the United States.)...

The Olympic Games represent the best in human endeavor. The spirit of friendly competition, the years of training, and the satisfaction of seeing our athletes overcome competitors who live in countries where indoor plumbing is a luxury item. It's a time of special pride for Americans and I'm sure you share my sentiment when I say, "Just how many commercials can they put in one hour?"

Every company in America (and a few from beyond our shores) is planning to cash in on the games. There's an official car, an official swim suit, an official shoe, and an official soft-drink. I'll bet there's even an official nasal spray and an official liquid drain cleaner.

Of course that's not what the Olympics is about. The Olympics is about competition. That means yet another "Dream Team." As Americans it is our duty to watch the U.S.A. basketball team play. It doesn't matter that the results sound more like blood-pressure readings than basketball scores. ("122 over 36--Your systolic is good, but your diastolic is a little low.") It doesn't matter that it's like watching the L.A. Lakers play the Richard M. Nixon Middle School team. What matters is that you get to watch a team whose total annual income is larger than the gross national product of most of the countries they play...

I help my wife with the grocery shopping approximately every eight or nine months. That's about how long it takes her to forget what happened the last time I helped her.

When it comes to the weekly run to the Giganto-Mart, we have very different approaches. My wife likes to make a menu, prepare a list, and then stick to it. I, on the other hand, like to make a menu, prepare a list, and then buy whatever catches my eye.

Her approach has the benefit of letting her feel virtuous; she's planning and shopping methodically. My approach has the benefit of letting me feel virtuous (I'm planning methodically) and spontaneous (I'm buying whatever I want!) Sadly, there's no easy way to reconcile our two different approaches. The best my wife can do is hope to contain me.

She usually does this by sending me off in search of a specific item – canned beans, vinegar, boiled snipe – whatever she thinks will keep me occupied for the longest amount of time. The more intense the quest, the less likely I am to be distracted by ... oooh! Look at the new flavors of soda!...

There was a time when I didn't fear food. I ate with gusto and abandon (and occasionally a knife, fork, and napkin) without worrying about the consequences. That was before I understood calories.

Like many of the unpleasant facts of modern living – nuclear weapons, greenhouse gases, reality television, etc. – calories were discovered by scientists who meddled in things man was not meant to know. Or, at least, things this man didn't want to know.

Indulging in a fast-food burger and fries became a lot less fun when I realized I was consuming two day's worth of calories and a week's worth of fat and salt.

If the universe was fair, the size of food items would have some correlation to the number of calories they contained; carrot sticks would be toothpick-sized, baked-potatoes would resemble small beach balls, and burgers would have to be borne about on litters carried by six strong men. When you dared to order one of the frothy, creamy, sugary drinks at your local coffee house it would be delivered in a convenient fifty-five gallon drum.

If the universe was fair...