For an inaugural blog post, the following may be a bit inflamed and in poor taste, but I had to get this off my chest. Who am I kidding - it’s a factual diatribe about fat people. Everything written, singularly and in combination, is fact; so if you think it is in poor taste then that’s a problem with your filter, not my factual analyses.
Fat people, is it not bad enough that we of normal girth suffer the inconvenience of stepping aside whilst you lumber across entire sidewalks? Are we not patient; waiting for you to articulate full thoughts interspersed with audible breaths and guttural noises emanating from your throats? Can we be more tolerant; fitting neatly in the ergonomic seats of public transportation vehicles, looking straight ahead with nary a glance askance (yeah, that’s right, I used assonance, the greatest building block of verse) when your “rotundness” overflows defiantly into our personal space?
I’d say, fat people, that we are quite accepting of your social improprieties. Which is why I do not hesitate to request, nay demand, the following:
Please , for at least 5 seconds, fucking reason with that beast in the mirror before you parade yourselves in public like an overinflated Macy’s balloon of screaming nylon and spandex. If I can’t wait to get home and throw on sweatpants, why the hell can’t you just acknowledge that they are the only appropriate covering for your hemispheric mass and wear them all the time? The purpose of clothing is not to test the limits of tensile strength upon every exhale. What the hell is that thing sticking out from the front of your legs to your pants line? What is in there? That’s not a stomach is it? Is it a Darwinian adjustment to preservatives? A Volkswagon?
Fat people, is it not bad enough that we of normal girth suffer the inconvenience of stepping aside whilst you lumber across entire sidewalks? Are we not patient; waiting for you to articulate full thoughts interspersed with audible breaths and guttural noises emanating from your throats? Can we be more tolerant; fitting neatly in the ergonomic seats of public transportation vehicles, looking straight ahead with nary a glance askance (yeah, that’s right, I used assonance, the greatest building block of verse) when your “rotundness” overflows defiantly into our personal space?
I’d say, fat people, that we are quite accepting of your social improprieties. Which is why I do not hesitate to request, nay demand, the following:
Please , for at least 5 seconds, fucking reason with that beast in the mirror before you parade yourselves in public like an overinflated Macy’s balloon of screaming nylon and spandex. If I can’t wait to get home and throw on sweatpants, why the hell can’t you just acknowledge that they are the only appropriate covering for your hemispheric mass and wear them all the time? The purpose of clothing is not to test the limits of tensile strength upon every exhale. What the hell is that thing sticking out from the front of your legs to your pants line? What is in there? That’s not a stomach is it? Is it a Darwinian adjustment to preservatives? A Volkswagon?
Let's get one thing straight: NO, YOU DO NOT LOOK LIKE THE PEOPLE IN MAGAZINE ADS!!!
Seriously, fat people!? Do you really (1) wake up in the morning and (2) brush the Hostess Tasty Cake crumbs from your chest, (3) wade through the morass of pizza boxes and Chinese take-out paraphernalia, (3) make your way to wherever it is you keep your parachute-sized clothing, (4) stuff yourself into garment-like sausage casings like I’d imagine Ron Jeremy has to try to “stuff” all his glory into a Lifestyle Condom, and finally take a gander into a mirror and say to whatever parts of you are visible, “Yep, this is exactly what I want to look like in public. People need to be able to count the stretch marks on my saddlebags.” You are not a tree, and we don’t need to count your rings to tell your age. No one cares how old you are, because you are so fat that you will probably die of Type II Diabetes before completing this sentence!
What happened to a little self-restraint? I fucking love pudding and sex, but you don’t see me slopping gobs of deliciousness all over every vagina I luckily fall into (although it is a good idea and STOP FUCKING DROOLING AT THE MENTION OF PUDDING YOU FAT ASSES). Could you at least consider going out into the yard, taking the garden hose, measuring your circumference and purchasing a wardrobe accordingly?
And do you know what really takes the cake (aside from the plump kid pushing over the birthday boy)? You fatties have become increasingly grumpy and entitled. There is a difference between being big boned and proud and just plain fat. You used to be tolerated because of your assumed jolliness and good humor; the belly jolting laughs and coronary disease indicating rosy cheeks somewhat made up for the smell of skin flaps chaffing against each other all day. But now? You are literally throwing your weight around as if you should be respected for being grotesquely obese. You should have to buy two tickets for anything that you occupy two spaces for. There should be a “too fat to walk on the sidewalk” tax that pays for the rest of society’s inconvenience for having to avoid touching some nondescript part of your body. Don’t sue McDonalds and theme parks when you can’t fit in the ride restraints, FUCKING PURGE AFTER MEAL #9.
OK, I’m done. Oh wait, I’m not done. Don’t even get me started on the, “I can’t help it, it’s glandular,” argument. Glandular is getting mono or having growth spurts occasionally, not having a whole pizza for a snack and washing it down with a diet cola. Yeah! Good job fatty; you just consumed more saturated fat and calories than your average annual salary, but choosing diet soda is really going to make a dent in the long run. High five . . . followed by some weird under-arm skin clapping. Ugh.
Seriously, fat people!? Do you really (1) wake up in the morning and (2) brush the Hostess Tasty Cake crumbs from your chest, (3) wade through the morass of pizza boxes and Chinese take-out paraphernalia, (3) make your way to wherever it is you keep your parachute-sized clothing, (4) stuff yourself into garment-like sausage casings like I’d imagine Ron Jeremy has to try to “stuff” all his glory into a Lifestyle Condom, and finally take a gander into a mirror and say to whatever parts of you are visible, “Yep, this is exactly what I want to look like in public. People need to be able to count the stretch marks on my saddlebags.” You are not a tree, and we don’t need to count your rings to tell your age. No one cares how old you are, because you are so fat that you will probably die of Type II Diabetes before completing this sentence!
What happened to a little self-restraint? I fucking love pudding and sex, but you don’t see me slopping gobs of deliciousness all over every vagina I luckily fall into (although it is a good idea and STOP FUCKING DROOLING AT THE MENTION OF PUDDING YOU FAT ASSES). Could you at least consider going out into the yard, taking the garden hose, measuring your circumference and purchasing a wardrobe accordingly?
And do you know what really takes the cake (aside from the plump kid pushing over the birthday boy)? You fatties have become increasingly grumpy and entitled. There is a difference between being big boned and proud and just plain fat. You used to be tolerated because of your assumed jolliness and good humor; the belly jolting laughs and coronary disease indicating rosy cheeks somewhat made up for the smell of skin flaps chaffing against each other all day. But now? You are literally throwing your weight around as if you should be respected for being grotesquely obese. You should have to buy two tickets for anything that you occupy two spaces for. There should be a “too fat to walk on the sidewalk” tax that pays for the rest of society’s inconvenience for having to avoid touching some nondescript part of your body. Don’t sue McDonalds and theme parks when you can’t fit in the ride restraints, FUCKING PURGE AFTER MEAL #9.
OK, I’m done. Oh wait, I’m not done. Don’t even get me started on the, “I can’t help it, it’s glandular,” argument. Glandular is getting mono or having growth spurts occasionally, not having a whole pizza for a snack and washing it down with a diet cola. Yeah! Good job fatty; you just consumed more saturated fat and calories than your average annual salary, but choosing diet soda is really going to make a dent in the long run. High five . . . followed by some weird under-arm skin clapping. Ugh.
