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  • Writer's pictureJennifer Strube

Rum Detox

Rum. It’s the new Master Cleanse.

When you can’t go organic, go Rum. Coconut flavored. Pineapple Malibu. Pirate Bounty Mango. It’s the closest thing I’ve found to a detox here in China, and the only thing that seems to rid my body of the excessive amounts of oil I’m ingesting. My blood feels so thick, I have to avoid hybrid cars, as they may mistake me for a french fry grease pump and pull up for a fix.

Move over Jiffy Lube. Have your oil changed by a blood transfusion from Jen.

Honestly, it’s hard to pinpoint where the oil is coming from. If I could simply put my greasy finger on it, I would eradicate it from my diet. The only problem with greasy finger eradication is starvation. If I eliminated oil, I wouldn’t be eating at all. It’s the flavor of choice. It’s in everything. The rice. The boiled spinach. The steamed broccoli. The winter melon sweet and sour soup. The peking duck. The curry tofu. Next time I’m at a restaurant, I might as well just save them the trouble and order the artery thickener.

“I’ll have the Crisco please. Light on the salt. Hold the vegetables.” 

The most remarkable part of it all is that it doesn’t seem to affect the local female population’s waist size. When I arrived here, my 62″ frame wore a Chinese brand dress size medium and after six weeks in the country, I may have graduated to a XL. (The locals here are short). Even so, I won’t dare step on a scale. Okay, I did dare and after madly searching the gym for a kilo to pound ratio converter, it’s official.

Oil has politely given me an extra boost of 4 pounds.

Hence, my recent new rum hobby. It’s the only produce I’ve found that moves grease through my intestines. It’s like Draino in a cocktail. Forgive me if I’m being crude, but crude oil makes the world go round. Perhaps America’s efforts have been focused on the wrong continent. Forget Saudi Arabia. Stop drilling in Iran. You want some good oil?

Pass me the bok choy.

Rum is the perfect alternative to oil consumption. When you don’t have a juicer, just head to happy hour. There, in the tropical paradise of the mojito, you get all the nutrients you need. The local pub has the freshest tropical fruits in the country, all bottled nicely a liqueur-flavored drink. After one or two (or three) of these delicacies, I almost feel healthy again, as though my circulation can return to normal. My red blood cells can take off their oxygen masks and begin to inhale. All thanks to the fresh dieting alternative known as imbibing. 

Maybe Steven King was onto something with his infamous Red Rum speech. When in the Redlands, drink lots of rum. It’s the only way to murder the grease. Such brilliance portrayed through child hotel horror films.

What if I’ve stumbled upon the next diet trend? I could call it Detoxy-Rum. Or Rum-off-your-extra-Bum-weight. The South Rum Diet. I mean, if you see Billy Blanks or Dr. Atkins (God rest his soul), please keep quiet about Organa-Rum. I need to patent this Rum-a-Tum-Off. Keep Rumming Forrest.

Rum This.

Seriously, the mojito really is the most purified food I’ve found. The crisp mint, the lime wedge, the umbrella in a cup that makes me feel like I can be somebody. The fake green palm trees flapping under the wind of the ceiling fan, moving the cigarette smoke from the out of my eyes and into the red-eyed bar tender’s kind visage. I bet he knows about Rum-Your-Way-To-Health.

And now, so do I.

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