Oct 5, 2020 3 min read

My heart was racing. I got the fever, too. I slurred my words and I broke out into a sweat so bad that puddles formed around my size 13s.

I was whisked off to the hospital, where they hooked me up to all types of wires and machines that beeped consistently.

A cadre of physicians attended me at bedside and all came to the same conclusion: I have the grippe of romance.

In other words, I’m in love.

The doctors have a label for what I have. It’s called cupid-19. The 19 simply stands for the number of times I have come down with this pandemic.

The other 18? Well, all I can say is they just weren’t for me, from the bearded lady at the circus to Siri. I gave them my best shot but who can tell about these things?

I’m a good catch, really. Yes, there have been times when I went to bed with cheetos crumbs on my fingers and I snore a bit. OK, more than a bit. Some say I sound like a powerboat on Thunder on the Mon, even though I wear one of those masks that are supposed to remedy that.

And my choice in clothes has been questioned. I like T-shirts and cutoffs. What can I say? Some say those are not appropriate things for a 300-pound man to wear to church.

Anyway, I am sure this one, No. 19, is the one for me. We are like two peas in a pod, a very big pod.

We met at the national hot dog eating competition. She was a contestant and came in second, downing 34 in the two-minute time period. I think the judges were a bit harsh on her, especially since there were others who couldn’t keep the hot dogs down. ‘Nuf said.

I introduced myself, the great Saturated Fats, seer of all things football and in last place in the O-R’s weekly picks contest for most of the year.

Don’t worry; I’m ready for a rally that will shake the pillars of ancient Rome.

We quickly bonded, going from googling couple to a “thing” in no time, then an inseparable couple after my model airplane glue incident.

We have not set a date. I am very busy this time of year. We have decided on pork rinds and lemonade at the reception, nourishment that everyone loves, right?

We are going to have the ceremony on the steps of the sanitation authority. It might seem odd but it’s really the only place available in town that I don’t have a restraining order.

We won’t have a honeymoon right away because this is the middle of football season and I need to catch Joe Tuscano in the O-R’s weekly picks contest. And, hey, Wash High plays Trinity this week, so who can think about honeymooning? But I hear that Frostbite Falls, Minn., is a good place to go.

Anyway, like the Robert Palmer song goes, “Doctor, doctor, give me the news. I got a bad case of loving you.”

Saturated Fats writes a column for the Observer-Reporter whenever he feels like it.