Why I Haven't Given Up On Infomercials.

It's been a big news week already.

But you may be pleased to learn that I won't be delving into Mitt Romney's high school internship at the Cranbrook Preparatory Hairmasters Beauty School, where he coined the phrase, "Listen, Sheila, lie down because it's time for a trim."

I also won't touch upon Rush Limbaugh's induction into the the Hall of Famous Missourians, where the unveiling of his sizable bronze bust actually included a sizable bronze bust.

Instead, I'd like to explore some of this week's developments in the health arena, because really, what's more important than our health?

If our brains weren't capable of summoning the complex firing of synapses which can heft our girth from a futon, we'd have no means of climbing into the Nissan for the quarter mile trip for a Quarter Pounder.

How could we harbor any hope for witnessing our grandchildren's graduation and wedding processions if we hadn't made necessary lifestyle modifications, like shifting to reduced-calorie Oreos and yogurt-based pork rinds?

That's why, in the tradition of Lance Armstrong's blood doping guru, I'm here to help keep you at least two meters beyond the swoop of the grim reaper's rusted scythe.

The first story emerged from the seductive world of the coffee bean, where researchers have discovered, after analyzing nearly four hundred thousand test subjects, that coffee consumption can increase our life spans, up to six percent for men and five for women.

How about that, all you java jive turkeys? Experts aren't exactly sure of the reason, but does it really matter? I'm seriously considering cashing in my six percent for the pleasure of lighting up a nice Marlboro Red or two each morning to form a perfect love triangle between newspaper, nicotine and the sports section.

My tea-sipping spouse and children will surely stare in repulsed disbelief, but this time I've got science on my side.

Unfortunately, another development emerged this week in the world of fitness, and I'm not going to sugar coat it because it's yet another chilled serving of caveat emptor.

Kim Kardashian, whom I've known since being introduced through our mutual friend, Adobe Photoshop, will no longer sing the praises of Shape-ups, the butt-toning shoes by Skechers which she claimed allowed her to ditch her personal trainer.

On Wednesday, the southern California shoe maker agreed to pay fifty million dollars to settle false-advertising allegations by the Federal Trade Commission.

Ms. Dash, who'd previously claimed she owed her notorious derriere's prominence to the shoe's "rocker-bottom" technology but has been informed otherwise, must now await lab results believed to reveal the existence of an unborn twin protruding from her backside. Wisdom teeth nubs and dark, wiry whiskers led to wide-scale speculation of a profound misdiagnosis.

If anything can be learned from this week's developments, it's that we, the consumers, must practice eternal vigilance to discern the magical elixirs from the snake oils.

I've been suckered before.

Suzanne Somers' Thigh Master had me calling the toll free number faster than you could say "leg warmers," but after a couple weeks of torture, my groin was so tight that I couldn't pee without some prescription muscle relaxants and the Kenny G box set.

And I didn't end up purchasing the Bowflex, but its commercials made me waver about my sexual identity for the first time since watching the Top Gun volleyball scene in '86.

But I haven't given up. For every ten exercise lemons, one beacon of light shines on the consumer, and I think I've finally found it.

That shake weight is already paying some serious dividends.