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Did you know that people who write about food for a living tend to be fatties? It's true! Except for the Times' dreamy James Bond of gastronomy, Frank Bruni. The point is that some food critics have realized that scarfing down daily heapings of pork bellies and passing it off as a professional expense is no guarantee they won't keel over from a heart attack, and is a guarantee they will have a hard time seeing their own genitals. Even pork-loving wild man Mario Batali is threatening to start exercising! By chasing a greased sow in his Crocs, perhaps. But even while some of the wiser gluttons are easing back, says the Times, their stupider brethren—embodied by one man—just can't stop with the sausage:

"I think enjoyment of food has never proven to be harmful to anyone's health," said Mr. [Steven] Shaw, who turned from practicing law to writing about food in the late 1990s with an article for defending fat guys. He still cultivates a persona in print and online as The Fat Guy, and at 5-foot-10 weighs about 270 pounds.

Mr. Shaw said he believes the genetic component of weight and health matter more than moderation and exercise. Although his father died from heart disease, he thinks that the state of medical knowledge on the relationship of diet to health changes so frequently that it can't be trusted.

Some of his views about diet and health border on the extreme. "I think the whole diabetes thing is a major hoax," he said. "They are overdiagnosing it."

In other words: "I am an idiot." Steven Shaw is plodding towards a meat-induced coma, the timing of which will surely be directly correlated to how much he continues to spout delusional health advice. The self-imposed decline of a man's health is a sad thing to watch, I say as I light a cigarette. In any case, if Shaw does decide to turn his life around, there is only one clear strategy for success: