03/12/2012 04:26 EDT | Updated 05/12/2012 05:12 EDT

Week Eight: And Then There was Cake...

I remember eating -- let's not be polite here -- I was STUFFING a second piece of cake in my mouth, drunk out of my skull. "Jesus, that's good!" I exclaimed to the Bar Mitzvah guests. I was literally sliding the whole piece in like it was on a conveyer belt.

Inspired by the very public diets of Toronto's Ford brothers -- Mayor Rob and brother Doug -- a Huffpost contributor has decided to take up their Cut the Waist challenge, and shed 30 pounds by June 18. Our contributor will weigh-in every Monday (you can read his previous entries here and here) with his progress (including a photograph of his bathroom scales that morning). He would like to be less public, however, about his identity.

I awoke with only one question in mind: Where's the chicken?

I'm referring to the film The Hangover, and based on last night's festivities, I should've woken up, dragged my feet to the kitchen for coffee, only to find a chicken in my living room. To say that I overdid it last night would be like saying... ok, there's no other way to say it. I really overdid it. I remember eating -- let's not be polite here -- I was STUFFING a second piece of cake in my mouth, drunk out of my skull, and had a vision of some skeezy guy doing blow off a hooker's ass. Then HE'S the one who turns to ME and says, "Whoa Speed Racer, you might want to dial it down just a skootch. You are totally out of control, dude."

And this was after I fell flat on my back. But let's not jump ahead.

The celebration was a Bar Mitzvah for son number two of dear friends and they had rented out a bowling alley for the festivities. Now you might recall I'm trying to lose weight, hence the moniker "The Fat Diaries," the little piggy icon, the weekly weigh-ins. (This week I'm at 233).

These are all subtle clues to suggest the kind of person who is following a commitment to lose weight by carefully limiting his food intake, exercising regularly, and most importantly, planning ahead to -- ok, let's just get to the point: I had no plan. I didn't even bring a water pistol to this gunfight.

Before I could even formulate a plan as I arrived, I had first vodka drink in hand. "Wait, how did that get--?" and by the time I moseyed to the trough of chips to check out the guacamole, I must've been on my second. There was a third drink. Couldn't get to the fourth without the third, right? Somewhere in the middle of drink counting I recall eating a sensible salad. Aha! I really WAS in control, see? But not before inhaling a hamburger with a fistful of onion rings. But I was careful to show restraint and not order CHEESE on the burger. OH, that was rich.

I remember being asked to bowl. I remember somebody saying it was my turn. I don't remember wondering if I should be wearing bowling shoes. Before I knew it, I was ready to show off my Fred Flintstone bowling trophy form. Like the space shuttle at full speed takeoff, I launched that ball into the lane-o-sphere with everything I had. Then the whole room looked funny and I landed flat on my back with a SMACK!

A close friend with whom I politically spar looked down in concern and made two peace signs and asked, "How many fingers am I holding up?" He looked so much like Richard Nixon I searched my comedy registry for a good Nixon joke but came up short. So I bunted with "Obama 2012." He threw up his arms in exasperated Jackie Gleason style. "He's all right!" he reported to the concerned onlookers.

That should've been my cue that I'd had enough. But then there was cake. I knew better not to have -- suddenly I am eating cake. "Jesus, that's good!" I exclaimed to my fellow Bar Mitzvah guests. To myself: "Seriously. You've had enou--" and then I was offered a second piece from, I'm guessing, a graduate from Pusher School.

Second time same as the first, except this time I was producing a Crossfire segment in my head where both sides were debating whether I should eat the second piece while, in parallel, I was already eating it. Like a dog. Literally sliding the whole piece in like it was on a conveyer belt. Cue imaginary scuzball turning to tell ME that I'm the one with the problem.

Damn subconscious. See, this is why we're rarely on speaking terms. But this time he was right. I AM the one with a problem.

So this is where I turn to you, Dear Readers: If I have another gala event to attend in the coming weeks, what are some strategies you recommend?