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.

It's a cold morning in America.

November 1—it's a cold morning for most of us.

And downright frosty for others.

It's a day of transition, a day burdened by the half-filled waterbed mattress of reality which some are compelled to bend over and hoist.

For a man named Herman Cain, an ill-advised, new campaign slogan has latched onto his Cinderella run at the Presidency: "It's November first...and the bubble has burst."

Following a Rocky-esque surge in the Republican polls, nutty America's love affair with the former Gandhi of Grease is regrettably waning. Allegations have surfaced that during the 1990s, Citizen Cain employed the old "9-9-9 technique" in attempt to seduce two employees while serving as president of the National Restaurant Association.

Apparently, he suggested that they meet on the ninth of every month at nine o'clock...and it would only take nine minutes.

They each responded that he should stuff his calzone and promptly reported his behavior to the association, subsequently reaching and undisclosed settlement.

When recently pressed on these allegations, Cain provided nothing but denials and non-answers. Each refusal to come clean has driven another nail into his pine pizza box, and Herman now appears to be foundering in the same rough political seas of which his rivals have long ago grown accustomed.

Another embattled icon arises this November morn, resolute to rub some dirt on her wounds and yank herself up by her nine-hundred and seventy dollar Prada stretch leather tall bootstraps.

Kim Kardashian awakens today to face life in the six foot, nine inch vacuum of her departed soul mate. Undoubtedly, she has by now exhausted every arrow in her shivering quiver to save a doomed love, lying panting in a pool of mascara after a seventy-two day ordeal. All that remains is a charred Tiffany box of a passion which burned white-hot like a...really hot sparkler, or something.

My thoughts extend to each of them; I know they're hurting.

As for the rest of us, we've been dealt a perennial challenge on this day. The two-month holiday season has officially commenced, and it kicks off with a massive supply of leftover Halloween candy, both at home and brought to the workplace. While the cache will rapidly ebb, we—okay, I—must summon the discipline to avoid grabbing, unwrapping and consuming everything in my path.

I cannot repeat last November's defining incident. I absentmindedly scooped up a Kit Kat on the way to the men's room and came to my senses too late: I was simultaneously chewing, swallowing and urinating.

Rock bottom.

With Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's looming ahead like a smoked gouda storm cloud, I am resolved to acknowledge everything that enters my pie hole; I don't care if it's a Dixie Cup of water. If I decide to slather half a cheese log on one Chicken in a Biskit, so be it, but I'm going to cognizantly process the entire sodium- and fat-laden event.

A famous Zen tenet is "when you are eating, you are eating."

Let's eat, then.