Rudy Cavanau, 47, has been addicted to refrigerated lunch meat, specifically poultry, for over 25 years.

                  “I like it chilled, and it’s pretty much all I eat… aside from pumpkin seeds and ice chips,” says Rudy.

              And even though his refrigerated lunch meat habit puts him at greater risk of high bold pressure and heart disease, Rudy still hasn’t been able to quit, even for the sake of his health.

                   “I have an 18 lunch meat sandwich a day habit,” says Rudy.  His mind wanders, returns.  He continues.  “My habit has cost me everything.  My wife left me after she caught me crouched down, behind the washing machine, at 3am, repeatedly French kissing… a turkey and cheese hoogie.  I hocked everything I owned just to get that next fix.  My lowest point was when I found myself in the back of a food truck, giving oral pleasure to male Gypsies in exchange for leftover turkey wings.”

                     Rudy has tried multiple methods to help him kick has habit, including Lunch Meat Excessive Eaters Anonymous, without success.

              “Yeah, that didn’t go too good,” Rudy admits.  “Because for some strange reason, they would always serve cold cuts after the meetings.  Took me 6 months to realize that I had been going to the wrong joint.”  Rudy chuckles, continues.  “I had been going to meetings for people addicted to eating soap.  It was weird.  After the end of every meeting, the air would filled with bubbles.”

            Rudy thinks, continues.  “Then I tried medication, but the side affects made my kidneys itch… and my hands tremble, which was problematic in my job at the nitroglycerin plant.  Had to get a new job.  Later, I even tried hypnosis, but staring repeatedly at a swinging watch gave me vertigo, which was problematic at my new job as a doll house roofer.”

           It was at that point that Rudy reunited with his former life coach, an iguana named Bingles, to help him finally beat his addiction.

                   “I was desperate,” Rudy says.  He looks into his hands.  No answer there, continues.  “Bingles came in, sat me down, ripped the turkey bologna patch from my arm, and then he gave me the advice of last resort.  He told me to just quit straight up… you know… go cold turkey.”

             And there it was, the method that had such obvious ironic peril within its framework, that it would surely land Mr. Rudy Cavanau into cyclical relapse and torment.  Good luck, Rudy.