Well here it is the middle of January, the time when most of us have already postponed, or given up altogether our New Year's resolutions to make our middles smaller. That's right, even Santa has to shed some poundage! And, like everyone else, Santa is at the gym every January second with a renewed determination that this is year to get into shape. What I hate though, is while I'm atop the treadmill huffing and puffing at Level One while Eye of the Tiger booms out of the sound system, there's invariably some lycra-clad 25 pound chicklet next to me running at Level Bazillion on her cell phone complaining to a friend how fat she is because she's gained half a pound over the holidays. It's at that point I have a nearly uncontrollable urge to tackle the little wench and force feed her a cheese cake.

What I also hate are all the muscle bound dudes, with their biceps going condo, who can't get enough of themselves preening in the mirror. I'd love the mirrors to be taken out just to see if all these Steve Stunnings heads would explode.

Super size those fries, make the chocolate shake large.

Anyhow, that's how Santa sees it!