Fasting, Jogging, and Other Short-Lived Personalities
Danny Browning March 2026
NEWS4U Evansville
NEWS4U Evansville
Every year, without fail, I become the most spiritually ambitious person in North America right around late February. Something about Lent makes me feel like I could survive on prayer, black coffee, and moral superiority.
"I'm giving up sugar," I announce publicly, like I've just negotiated peace in the Middle East. Sugar. Not gossip. Not impatience. Not the quiet internal rage I feel when someone drives 63 in the fast lane on the Lloyd. No, I go after Skittles like they're the root of all evil.
The first 24 hours are electric. I'm unstoppable. I walk past donuts at the gas station like a monk who's seen things. Someone offers me a cookie, and I gently whisper, "No, thank you... I've chosen discipline." I half expect a choir to start humming behind me.
Day three is when the hallucinations begin.
Why is there cake everywhere? Who baked brownies in this office? Why does my phone keep showing me advertisements for chocolate lava something? I swear Siri leaned in and said, "You know what would pair well with that black coffee? Emotional stability."
It's not even the hunger. It's the attitude. I become judgmental. I see someone eating ice cream and I think, Wow. Must be nice to live recklessly. Meanwhile, I'm chewing almonds like a Civil War soldier rationing supplies.
By week two, I start negotiating with God.
"Technically, dark chocolate is medicinal." "Is syrup a beverage or a condiment?" "If I scrape the frosting off the cupcake, that's basically a salad."
The same thing happens with New Year's resolutions. January 1st, I wake up transformed. I've watched one motivational video, and suddenly I'm convinced I'm the kind of person who jogs before sunrise. I buy new shoes. The good ones. The kind that whispers, You're an athlete now.
Day one of jogging feels inspiring. Day two feels like a medical event. By day four, I'm Googling "can shin splints be fatal" while eating a protein bar that tastes like drywall.
Somewhere around mid-February, I pivot. "It's about balance," I tell myself while balancing a cinnamon roll on a paper plate.
Lent exposes something deeply humbling about me: I don't actually want to give things up. I just want the credit for having considered it. I want the before-and-after photo without enduring the awkward middle where I'm cranky and arguing over whether barbecue chips count as smoke or flavor.
But here's the strange part. Even when I fail, and I always do, I notice something. For a few weeks, I tried. I paid attention. I realized how automatic my habits are. I learned that my willpower has the structural integrity of a waterpark hotel hallway at midnight.
And yet, next year, I'll do it again. I'll stand there boldly declaring war on carbohydrates like I have a chance.
Because hope springs eternal.
And also because French toast is undefeated.
"I'm giving up sugar," I announce publicly, like I've just negotiated peace in the Middle East. Sugar. Not gossip. Not impatience. Not the quiet internal rage I feel when someone drives 63 in the fast lane on the Lloyd. No, I go after Skittles like they're the root of all evil.
The first 24 hours are electric. I'm unstoppable. I walk past donuts at the gas station like a monk who's seen things. Someone offers me a cookie, and I gently whisper, "No, thank you... I've chosen discipline." I half expect a choir to start humming behind me.
Day three is when the hallucinations begin.
Why is there cake everywhere? Who baked brownies in this office? Why does my phone keep showing me advertisements for chocolate lava something? I swear Siri leaned in and said, "You know what would pair well with that black coffee? Emotional stability."
It's not even the hunger. It's the attitude. I become judgmental. I see someone eating ice cream and I think, Wow. Must be nice to live recklessly. Meanwhile, I'm chewing almonds like a Civil War soldier rationing supplies.
By week two, I start negotiating with God.
"Technically, dark chocolate is medicinal." "Is syrup a beverage or a condiment?" "If I scrape the frosting off the cupcake, that's basically a salad."
The same thing happens with New Year's resolutions. January 1st, I wake up transformed. I've watched one motivational video, and suddenly I'm convinced I'm the kind of person who jogs before sunrise. I buy new shoes. The good ones. The kind that whispers, You're an athlete now.
Day one of jogging feels inspiring. Day two feels like a medical event. By day four, I'm Googling "can shin splints be fatal" while eating a protein bar that tastes like drywall.
Somewhere around mid-February, I pivot. "It's about balance," I tell myself while balancing a cinnamon roll on a paper plate.
Lent exposes something deeply humbling about me: I don't actually want to give things up. I just want the credit for having considered it. I want the before-and-after photo without enduring the awkward middle where I'm cranky and arguing over whether barbecue chips count as smoke or flavor.
But here's the strange part. Even when I fail, and I always do, I notice something. For a few weeks, I tried. I paid attention. I realized how automatic my habits are. I learned that my willpower has the structural integrity of a waterpark hotel hallway at midnight.
And yet, next year, I'll do it again. I'll stand there boldly declaring war on carbohydrates like I have a chance.
Because hope springs eternal.
And also because French toast is undefeated.
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Danny Browning is a nationally touring stand-up comedian, clean corporate entertainer, and monthly humor columnist for News4U Evansville. Based in Southern Indiana, he has performed at comedy clubs, corporate galas, and nonprofit fundraisers across Indianapolis, Louisville, Evansville, Cincinnati, and beyond, including the Improv, the Funny Bone, and stages alongside Norm MacDonald, Jim Norton, and Jennifer Coolidge. Comedy & Curiosities is his attempt to be funny without a microphone. It's going okay.
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Danny Browning | Comedian, Humorist & Monthly Troublemaker for News4U Evansville