I burst through the double wooden doors into the newsroom,taking big steps and walking tall. Her eyes size me up as I strideleft past her desk.

I say, “What’s up, babe,” trying to play it cool. She knows I’mhiding something, but just a few more steps and I’ll be clear ofthe danger and back at my desk with my 65-cent treasure.

Then I bungle the entire operation.

I hold the cold, wet can in my left hand, pressing it against mythigh and hoping my shirttail will hide it. But I’m fat, and myshirttail doesn’t fall quite as far as I need it to, so I have tomove the can around behind my back. This move immediately drawssuspicion.

“What’s in your hand?” she asks, delivering me the fatalblow.

“Nothing.” I lie.

“Is that a Mountain Dew?” The jig is up.

“Maybe,” I say. It’s the strangest thing. Suddenly, I can’tremember anything. Why am I shepherding this can? Who am I?

“No more.” She slams the door.

My daily allowance of Mountain Dew, that sweet replenishing nectar,has been spent, wasted at 9 a.m. on a pack of nabs and the dailypolice reports. When it’s time for lunch, the wife will make medrink water. Not cool.

Don’t get me wrong – my wife doesn’t nag me, and she doesn’t takethe fun out of suppertime. Anyway, I gave her permission when Isaid, “I do.”

She’s been able to work me down from anywhere from six to eightcokes a day to about three a week. Not too shabby.

It’s the rest of the country I’m worried about.

Honestly, I guess I’m lucky I get a Mountain Dew at all in thisworld of bottled water and treadmills, fake sugar and granola bars,this world where skinny folks want to make a bacon cheeseburger amisdemeanor and charge me with negligent homicide when I smoke asquare within a quarter-mile of the city limits.

Who are these anti-junkies? How did they get here?

They’re everywhere.

They’re up at 4:30 in the morning – grown men running fanaticallydown the dark sidewalks for miles, sweating to some awful happymusic and dressed in little athletic shorts that never should havebeen revealed to the public.

They’ve brought their heresy into the grocery store, too -pathetically skinny people loading up on frozen vegetables and onlya pound of 90 percent lean ground beef, a meat so lacking in tastyfat it doesn’t even drip when you squeeze it, a meat I’m sure I’dhave to rub down with lard before allowing it anywhere near mykitchen.

I raise my 5-pound roll of el-cheapo, white-label ground beef tostrike them about the head and neck, but my better angelsprevail.

We’ve got to fight them. They’re fighting us.

Michelle Obama is on a well-publicized mission to promote healthyfoods in stores and schools. According to the U.S. Department ofHealth and Human Services, her program has about $400 million infederal budget power to assist institutions that promote the”healthy food needs of communities.”

Really? My community needs loaded tater skins, Mrs. President.Don’t forget the bacon bits.

Here in Mississippi, Rep. Omeria Scott, D-Laurel, has introducedHouse Bill 901, which would require the state board of education to”adopt a regulation requiring local school districts to providelow-fat snacks and meals to children diagnosed by a physician asoverweight.” The bill would give districts the option to adoptfurther rules and regulations that “may be more stringent.”

You’re right, Rep. Scott. Instead of pizza, today I’ll have anapple – a caramel apple … dipped in chocolate … smothered inwhipped cream … with Sweet Tarts.

We’ve got to fight them, and we can do it with our wallets.

These government health programs are all well and good, but theycan’t tell the store what to sell you (yet). The stores are goingto choose making money over ensuring every customer gets a carrot,every time. So, cast your votes in favor of red meat and whitepotatoes.

The next time you’re up against an anti-junky, slap that celery outof his hand, stir some Kool-Aid mix into his water bottle andremember the words written here, in the Gospel According toAdam.

Adam Northam is a staff writer at The DAILY LEADER. He may bereached at anortham@dailyleader.com.