Catching my eye this morning was an article in the paper about Jack Sprat. After reading it, I have the skinny on the dude. It turns out that he could eat no fat, but his wife—name unknown—ate fat like crazy. Every day started the same—without fail, Jack choked down dry toast while his wife knocked back a half pound of bacon, a few eggs fried in oil, and a dozen buttered biscuits dripping with honey.
After suffering the same indignity day in and day out—just because he didn’t eat fat didn’t mean he didn’t want to—he demanded a divorce, claiming that his wife had kept her medical condition secret at the time he proposed.
“Ha,” she said. “Just look at me. Does it look like I hid anything?” She winked. “I guess my voluptuousness blinded him.” Being the injured party, she retaliated by taking him for all he was worth.
Jack’s wife eventually remarried—well, I might add—and lived happily ever after off the fat of the land.
But Jack, now a wizened, bitter stick of a man, made no bones in telling people that his wife took him to the cleaners where she hung him out to dry. He suffered some seriously lean times, all because his inFATuation kept him from sizing up his potential mate.
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