The Fattest Bastard: Explaining All Things Largess

Mysteries of the Chinese Buffet, Part II

2007-07-14T13:38:00.000-07:00

I commonly go to Chinese buffets with family for social bonding, or by myself to initiate a state of calm, meditative reflection. The Chinese buffet is so much more than a common eatery, it is a mystical, magical Mecca where mystical, magical and sometimes frightening things can happen. There exists in these havens an intangible unifying force that brings people of all shapes, sizes, ages, and creeds together in masticating ecstasy. To that end it is understandable that this setting (remember, called "buffatmosphere") might reinforce and manipulate the already powerful hallucinatory effects of the wonder-drug called MSG. To put it bluntly, already crazy people are driven to even crazier, unthinkable things.

In other words, I was hit on at a Chinese buffet.

I had made a pilgrimage with my loving yet old grandparents to Great China Super Buffet for a memorable lunch-time experience. After all there are very few other establishments where small Asian people willingly offer up neverending tins of delicious stir-fried meats to sate my greatness. The meal passed pleasantly and as usual, I devoured my tithings with remarkable speed. Having found my Chi and achieved a Zen-like center, I sat silently as my grandparents slowly crawled towards the finish line.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a large shadow hovering towards our booth. Looking up revealed an exponentially large, pale-skinned woman in her 50's with thinning hair and glasses, wearing tight un-fitting clothes and sporting an odd tatoo on her right arm. A Sherman tank by definition, oiled and poised, ready to strike when given the proper launch codes.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your lunch here, but I just HAD to come over and tell you. My daughter thinks you are absolutely adorable."

Needless to say I was completely taken aback by this direct hit to my port side bow. Not by their attraction to my glorious self, but by the place and timing of their advance. I struggled to ascertain exactly what the basis of this attraction was. Obviously these two women had just witnessed me in true form, shoveling plates of food towards my face with unfettered, primal rage. This behavior would be attractive only to the natural inhabitants of a Chinese buffet, who live, feed, and breed influenced heavily by the intoxicating chemicals found therein.

All I could manage was a moderate amount of damage control through a hesitant smile. I peeked around the event horizon to get a view, but by this point the daughter in question had strategically maneuvered herself out of sight and into a position of embarrassment in the lobby. Understandable of course, for who comes to a Chinese buffet looking for love, much less a mate? Who wants to tell other couples for the rest of their life that they met their soul mate while wallowing in buffet cart #2 when no more clean plates were to be had?

After an awkward pause, she continued on. "Anyway, she's 26 and single if you're looking."

This woman was twice my size, and her physical presentation was doing anything but building up hope that her progenal offspring had somehow fallen miles from the tree. While mass is certainly a component of greatness, it is merely a contributing factor rather than a direct equation. Yielding to my silence she trodded off to the parking lot in defeat, leaving me to wonder if I had somehow just ascended to a higher plane of existence or experienced an alternate dimension of hell. My suspicions were confirmed as I caught a glimpse through the restaurant window of the daughter's backside. Same make and model of her mother, just a newer year.

At that moment I realized that I was incorrect in my initial assessment of this armored wartime machinery. At first glance the symbolic tatoo on this woman's arm appeared to be the familiar stars and bars of American-made industry, but I'd know those tank treads anywhere. What I thought to be a Sherman tank was actually Hitler's Third S.S. Panzer division. How the two of them managed to escape Europe 60 years ago and continue the fight by time-travelling to MY Chinese buffet I have no idea, but nevertheless they were here.

My grandparents got a real kick out of this story, and I was left with the only option of taking numerous futile showers to wash this grimy, unclean, tainted buffet experience off of myself. I guess the moral of the story here is the next time you feel the sudden urge to procreate at a Chinese buffet, keep your mouth shut and realize it's the massive cocktail of MSG, peanut oil, and soy sauce you just ingested clouding your better judgement.

The Ridiculousness of Old People

2007-06-14T23:55:00.000-07:00

We all know about the usual perils of old people. An 88 year old woman, wearing wrap-around Walgreen's sunglasses (even though she's half-blind already from glaucoma) and sitting on no less than TWO phone books, driving an '88 Buick going 50 MPH in the carpool lane on the freeway yapping her head off while her shell of a husband sits as far to the right of her as possible, staring out the window praying for his soul to escape. At least they have the sense to make sure their turn signal isn't on like those pesky Asian drivers. Of course, everyone ELSE on the road is a terrible driver to them, while they remain oblivious to the ten car pile up they just caused in their wake. Everybody else is merging into their lane. Everybody else runs red lights (and by red lights I mean they are actually yellow). Anyone who blows by their car going the normal 5-10 over the speed limit is met with a gasp of shock and awe, followed by spiteful wishes for cops to emerge out of nowhere. The same cops that they are so afraid of yet refuse to admit aren't there.

Old people even manage to clog up traffic without even driving with their massively sprawling, gated, snowbird retirement communities. No through traffic is allowed simply so they can play golf with their sense of high and mighty entitlement. "Hey look! There's a new Dillard's on the other side of that Leisure World. I'll load up the Oregon Trail wagon with 300 pounds of meat, but we may have to stop and hunt before we make it."

Every old person is ripe with the stank of steadfast cheapness (and you thought it was just mothballs and Vick's vapor rub). I can understand using coupons to save money, or shopping around to find deals, but there is a limit. I call this the "$6.99 early bird special at Golden Corral" syndrome. This is where you go to a buffet during the tail end of lunch (around 3pm), get a senior citizen's discount on the already discounted lunch price, and WAIT for the dinner menu to be put out. Then you clog the line as the steaks cook, preventing others from reaching anything at all. Investment completely eludes them. Stocks, mutual funds, all of their cash sits rotting in a savings or CD account. It's the same kind of cheapness that they view as being frugal, where they spend way more money in the process of trying to save a dime here or there. For example, here in Arizona the electricity goes on a double rate at peak temperature hours. Rather than raise the house temperature five to ten degrees by running the AC intermitently, old people will shut off the air completely to try and save money. What they don't realize is that the seven fans they turn on throughout the house eat up more electricity than the air conditioning ever would, and they still sweat just as much in the intolerable heat.

As is typical there is a fear of change. This is a never ending cycle, longing for the "good old days" while the world leaves them behind. Outdated electronics and furniture are no match for outdated ideas on how the world should be run. To be fair many of them lived through the Great Depression and World War II when times really were tough, but I'm sure their grandparents thought the world was going to hell in a handbasket too. We all have an underlying fear that we may be wrong about something, be it love, religion, our way of life. Getting old means death comes inevitably closer and unfortunately we tend to deal with it in angry, self-righteous fashion.

Nothing will nauseate you more than the disgusting eating habits of senior citizens. I never knew Palmed Chicken was an actual recipe until I saw my Grandfather try to dismantle a chicken into pieces with his bare hands. He had a knife in his hands somehow, but apparently shredded is how they used to do it back in the good old days. There is no moderation at the buffet line. Portion control goes out the window as each plate becomes a hodge-podge trough of a casserole piled as high as can be held in their shaky hands. This happens because they forget what they've put on their plate immediately after they've put it there. You can tell if they've gotten beets because the whole plate will turn a light shade of red halfway through the feeding process. God help them if there is but one shrimp in the vicinity of their food because the entire plate will soon be smothered in cocktail sauce. Bread etiquette also seems to be an issue as rather than spreading a moderate amount, old people will cake enough butter on a roll to cover every nook and cranny with at least an inch-deep layer of fat. Even better if it's sweeter bread, because spoonfulls of honey will soon be applied directly to the mouth.

Lost your appetite yet? How about these:

Topping off your water with Mountain Dew or Diet Coke "just because it's wet" is an abuse of said beverage. Putting ice cubes in your cereal to keep the milk cold will only dilute the milk further when you spoon it directly into your reheated day old stale coffee. Pickled cucumbers is not an acceptable side dish, nor is the excess oil/vinegar an acceptable salad dressing. Tapioca pudding is a dessert best left in hospitals where people have no digestive tract. And lastly, someone needs to tell seniors that salsa is NOT a soup. We do not slurp it or any other condiment directly from the small, clear Dixie cups it comes in at the El Pollo Loco.

According to old people nuking meat is ok as long as it's sitting in its own juices, but I'm of the belief that shoe leather smothered in even the most delicious of gravy/broth is still shoe leather. Texture of food comes from internal temperature, not how much juice you've boiled out of the meat. Why must we overcook EVERYTHING? Boiling by the way is never a preferred cooking method, especially for meats or vegetables. Somehow they've forgotten the terms "caramelization, golden brown and delicious, and seasoning" from their vocabulary.

Once we hit 80 our manual dexterity can be likened to that of an astronaut in full outer space gear, i.e. a 2 year old child. A gradual dulling of all the senses ensues. Their hearing is gone, evidenced by the high pitched scream of hearing aids left on the kitchen table as Grandpa holds a phone up to his ear with the "Speakerphone" feature switched on. Even the sense of smell apparently disappears, as not only does the sound and feel of their own flatulence elude them, the ensuing aroma that permeates every corner of the house fails to register as well.

Not only do you have to repeat everything you say three to for times, you have to correct them later when they try to repeat it due to their terrible memory. This usually leads to incessant gossiping because they have no life of their own. What else is there when all you do is read the newspaper and watch the weather channel all day? Whether they have Alzheimer's or not, don't tell them anything personal that you don't want repeated to every other family member with completely inaccurate discrepancies. Everything is an event to old people because the dullness of their own lives brings little satisfaction. The worst is when old people try to correct each other's mistakes with their own mistakes. I honestly think some of them get a kick out of correcting others because it gives them some false sense of security that they are still sharp as a tack. Like printing out daily email correspondence or listening in on phone conversations for the sole purpose of correcting errors no matter how minor or mundane they might be.

Finally, do not watch sports with old people. Everything is a "travel" or a "charge" except for the team they are rooting for. They can do no wrong of course, and every questionable call must go in their favor. Players with success or longer hair are punks and undeserving of everything they have regardless of their upbringing. This however can be somewhat entertaining as sensory degradation can lead to many bouncing balls believed to be strikes, and after-buzzer shots believed to be made three pointers.

There's plenty more I could talk about like endless prescriptions and needless trips to the emergency room, but I feel a little bit better now. I promise there will be more Fatness ahead.

AHAHAHAAHAHAAA! Eat it whiny Suns fans.

2007-05-20T11:33:00.000-07:00

Another non-Fat post here, but I just felt the need to comment on this year's NBA playoffs. I don't normally watch pro-basketball. It usually consists of egotistical superstars travelling their way to 70 points against pitiful soft, warm butter offered up as defense. But since baseball is an equally boring and non-riveting sport, and since golf is reserved for the Sunday afternoon nap, the month of May leaves no other option but to watch the NBA playoffs. Now as a disclaimer, I am a both a mild Suns fan and a mild Spurs fan. I lived in San Antonio for three years back when David Robinson and Avery Johnson were in their hey-day. I have lived in Phoenix for an equal amount of time, and I believe I can bring a rather objective opinion to the nonsense of the past couple weeks.

I understand that people want to root for their team, but I am simply amazed at the blatant bias that Suns fans have. They want every call to go their team's way. The refs are part of a massive anti-Suns conspiracy, i.e. pro-whatever team they are playing against. Every time the other team touches the ball it's an offensive foul, a 3-second count, a travel... but every time Nash jump stops/travels or palms the ball it is conveniently ignored.

So let's clear the air here:

1. Bowen and Duncan were rightly NOT suspended because there was no "altercation" after that dirty Suns player took Manu's feet out from under him. Words may have been exchanged, but there was no fight. Manu sucked it up, got back down the court and played defense. Good teams do that from time to time. Bell stormed at Horry after a rather hard foul, while Amare and Diaw went into the fray. Big difference. The Suns played their own part in escalating the game 4 altercation.

2. All this whining about suspensions is absolutely pointless. I knew the Suns would resort to complaining about how "we would have won if we had Amare and Boris." The fact is that the Suns couldn't close out game 5 after being up 16 points WITHOUT STOUDEMIRE OR DIAW. The Spurs got shafted because Horry was suspended when Baron Davis clocked a guy with an elbow and received nothing for it. I will give credit to Nash for doing exactly what he was supposed to: sell the call to the ref. Fly into the bench, put a constipated face on, and writhe around on the ground until they call the foul. Then you get up and run into the fight like nothing happened. Suns fans whine about Ginobili flopping all the time but of course when their guy does it, it's ok.

3. Tim Duncan is a true competitor, a high class guy who always speaks highly of his team/competition and rarely receives a technical foul. Robert Horry was understandably frustrated because the Suns came back to win a great game that the Spurs had flat out dominated for three quarters. I do not condone his brief lapse of judgement but he doesn't have a track record of doing this. Every game interview I've ever seen with him has left a positive impression on me. He's no dirtier than Raja Bell, a guy with a much worse track record conveniently ignored by Suns fans. In fact, if I saw Raja Bell running up to me I'd raise my arm up too. The Suns must be a dirty team too. It's ok to admit it. It's not ok to blatantly hate teams/players just because your team loses to them all the time. People go to therapy for that.

For years the Spurs have been an absolute class act, winning with style and humility dating back to when David Robinson and Avery Johnson were playing. Somehow a bunch of Suns fans are trying to tarnish that reputation just because their team can't make it past them to play for a championship. The Spurs play defense. The numbers don't lie, they are the best in the league. I guess I would be pissed off too if everyone I had played that year had just let me run by them for easy layups and all of a sudden Bruce Bowen shows up putting a hand in my face. The Spurs have become the New England Patriots of basketball. Everyone hates them because they win, win, win and love it when they lose in hopes that their inferior teams might now have a shot. Even I as a Broncos fan admit to hating the Patriots. Why? Because they beat my team every time they play! Doesn't make them dirty or unworthy of victory.

Every single "dirty" incident that Suns fans mention had absolutely no effect on the end result in each game. None. The Suns still won the Horry bump game. They were up 16 with half a quarter to go without their suspended players, and they folded. The Suns had every opportunity and plenty of time to win each other game, and despite being a very entertaining, fast paced team to watch, they failed to get the job done. They may have been the more athletic team on the court but the more experienced, more physical, and ultimately better team still won. The Suns have no one to blame but themselves, but God knows they'll still try.

Hold Up While I Fix Some Star Wars Prequels Real Quick

2007-02-01T11:26:00.000-07:00

I know, it's not Fat related, but it's a subject near and dear to my clogg-ed heart. First I'll explain what was wrong with the Star Wars prequels, then I'll fix them in a way that just makes too much sense to have been done.

Even though Phantom Menace got something like 3 1/2 stars, Episode I should have never been made. Aside from establishing Anakin as a whiny 2nd grader with feelings, this movie does nothing to further the main plot. You know, the whole downfall of the Republic/Jedi extinction/Clone Wars thing. Rule number one in writing a story or script, is that if what you are writing doesn't further the main plot or establish a character, it gets trashed. Instead we get Gungans and a paperweight "battle hardened" Droid Army. How do droids get battle hardened anyway? Here's a nice little visual as to what main plot lines are taken care of as each movie is made. These plot lines are basic assumptions, story lines from the original trilogy that we know must be explained. Some are mentioned above, but here they are in their entirety and in order of occurence: Downfall of the Republic/Clone Wars/Vader turns to the dark Side/Jedi extinction/Rise of the Palpatine's Empire/Obi-wan vs. Vader/Luke and Leia are born/Yoda and Obi-wan exile.

Episode I:
None of the above.

Episode II:
At the very end we get the Clone wars, otherwise none of the above.

Episode III:
Oops. This is the last movie. After this 40 minute chase scene, we better get down to business. Downfall of the Republic/Clone Wars/Vader turns to the dark Side/Jedi extinction/Rise of the Palpatine's Empire/Obi-wan vs. Vader/Luke and Leia are born/Yoda and Obi-wan exile.

You can see the obvious problem here. On top of this, there are waaaay too many characters introduced for the story's own good, with weak resolution if any. They just keep coming and coming and don't go away.

Episode II should have been "Episode I". Anakin is established as a dangerous padawan in training under Obi-wan. We don't care where he's from, or that he's the only human who can pod race. The Republic is on the verge of collapse due to Separatist activities, and the Clone Army is built.

Episode III should have been split into two movies. In Episode II, the Jedi are forced into service as generals and their numbers quickly diminish. The Clone Wars are in full swing, and the Republic is crumbling. The film ends with Anakin turning to the Dark Side due to his lust for power, and knocking up some dormitory slut with twins in a drunken-Dark-Side-Force-stupor.

Episode III gives us the declaration of Palpatine as Emperor, and the all out betrayal and extinction of the Jedi. Obi-wan confronts Vader, and escapes with Yoda and Anakin's newborn offspring into exile on Dagobah/Tatooine.

Lucas seemed afraid to leave any potential loose ends hanging around. Every origin, every character, it was all wrapped up in a force-fed bow topped package. Anakin builds C-3PO. Chewbacca is some Wookie Grand-Poobah who knew Yoda. Boba Fett's dad was the proto-type for the Clone Army. When does someone come out of obscurity to do something grand? Why does it all have to be intertwined so tightly, and thus unrealisticly? Tatooine is supposed to be this backwater planet nobody's ever heard of in the Outer Rim, yet Jabba lives there, it's conveniently on the way from Naboo to Corscant, and Obi-wan decides to hide Luke there. What, Vader never thinks to go back and see his old stomping ground? There should never have been a "prophecy", because who the hell fulfilled it in the end? Was it Anakin or Luke? What does "balance to the Force" mean? There should never have been a lame retcon explanation of the Force being related to midichlorians. How does Leia remember images her real mother and Luke doesn't, when Padme died before her eyes opened 10 seconds after birth? For some reason the ability for a Jedi to reappear after death is half explained, but they never tell us how Anakin is able to do it! Leave us with some mystery so our own imaginations can run here! We even see images of Death Star plans. It's like every time some correlation or connection to the old trilogy is made we're supposed to explode in some fanboy orgy screaming "OMGZ! FORESHADOWING!" Even the dialogue is plagiarized in this manner. I have a bad feling about this. "It's genius!" Yoda just reversed a sentence! "Brilliant!"

Speaking of which. Yoda's quirky double speak was a refreshing character trait when he was first introduced in Empire. It was interestingly appropriate because it added emphasis on philosophical points while training Luke. If you watch Empire and Jedi again, you'll notice that most of the time he speaks normally like everybody else. Remember these great quotes?

“Yes, a Jedi's strength flows from the Force. But beware of the dark side. Anger, fear, aggression; the dark side of the Force are they. Easily they flow, quick to join you in a fight. If once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny, consume you it will, as it did Obi-Wan's apprentice.”

Or how about this one?

“Size matters not. Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you? Hmm? Hmm. And well you should not. For my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. You must feel the Force around you; here, between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere, yes. Even between the land and the ship.”

For some reason, every line out of his mouth in the prequels was backwards. It was as if some clever pod of writers in the background were going "Hey, Yoda's got a line here. Let's make him do that occasional backward speaking thing." That's what got us lines like "Around the survivors, a perimeter create", "Not if anything to say about it, I have”, and “Good relations with the Wookiees, I have.” Complete overkill.

There should never have been a General Grievous, as cool as he is. Count Dooku was the main bad guy, and because of Grievous, suffered from major "Stormtrooper" syndrome. For those wondering, "Stormtrooper Syndrome" refers to when Stormtroopers, who are supposed to be the most elite, well-trained sharpshooters in the galaxy, simply can't hit the broad side of the proverbial barn when it comes to firing at one of the main characters. In Episode II Dooku quickly bests Anakin, then Obi-wan, and fights Yoda to a standstill before withdrawing. Then in Episode III, Dooku bests Obi-wan, but somehow Anakin's powers have "doubled" since their last encounter. You gotta be kidding me. Like there's a way to quantify or measure a Jedi's abilities. Not to mention all Sidious needed was a bag of popcorn while coaching this middle school wrestling match to the dark side. I guess George finally realized he had too many bad guys running around and had to wrap this thing up because he accomplished ABSOLUTELY NOTHING with the first two movies. Yoda even suffered from this power creep, as he just inexplicably gives up the fight against Sidious to crawl his way to safety through a Jeffries tube. Oops, sorry. Star Trek reference there.

The love story was absolutely terrible. Campy dialogue aside (Blue Screen Effect), Anakin did not convince me that his love for Padme was sufficient for his turn to the dark side. He has a dream that she's going to die and now he's ready to join the dark side? 10 seconds after he realizes Palpatine is a Sith and swears to turn him over to the council, he's hacking off Mace Windu's arm (Stormtrooper Syndrome) and kneeling at Palpatine's feet, pledging himself to Sidious' teachings. Palpatine slapping Anakin with a dark side ice cream cone would have been better motive. All of a sudden he's off murdering Jedi and Separatist leaders on Mustafar (what a convenient way to wrap up a loose plot line on a lava planet). You'd think that any doubt in Anakin's mind about the Jedi Order's perceived deception against the Republic would have been outweighed and eliminated by his knowledge that the SUPREME CHANCELLOR IS AN ANGRY SITH LORD RUINING EVERYBODY'S DAY! Guess that didn't register.

They should have established a lust for power earlier on. Not just Jedi powers, but command over others, so that his final bitch-fest with Obi-wan wouldn't have fallen flat on its face when he starts talking about "my new Empire". You know, right after he had crushed the windpipe of the woman he joined the dark side to save from death? The death of his mother seemed like it could have been a strong turning point in Anakin's quest for power. Only complete control, absolute obedience from others through fear, would keep his lover safe. That is obtained through absolute power, which corrupts absolutely. Not some mystical Force ritual to bring her back from the dead. The power/love combination was tepid, out of balance, and inadequate to justify Anakin's actions.

It was a big mistake filming EVERYTHING in front of a blue/green screen. Does it not seem like common sense that an actor would draw inspiration from the environment around him, adding depth to his performance? Not only did the acting suffer noticeably except for Liam Neeson and Ewan McGreggor, it seemed the CGI people went completely spastic with what they decided to add in the backgrounds. These films were just plain too busy. The first trilogy had a beautifully epic feel, a simple complexity. Notice the use of color schemes: A New Hope begins in space with the vast white of a starship, melding into the earth toned expanses of barren Tatooine desert, followed by the grays of the Death Star, and the blackness of space. Empire opens up with the overwhelming snows on Hoth, the black of the asteroid field, the swamps of Dagobah, and the dusk tones of Cloud City. Return of the Jedi brought us back to Tatooine and Dagobah, and gave us the forest of Endor along with the final space battle.

Other interesting inconsistencies:
R2-D2 has jets on his feet, and all sorts of other cool gadgets. Where the heck did they go?

E1-3 lightsaber duels are all flashy showmanship. Give me the slightly slower, more deliberate Empire and Jedi fighting style.

Jar-jar. Ugh. No more need be said.

Hope you enjoyed this rant. For something completely different, next will be another recipe!

Paula Deen Part 2: Now Fortified with Vitamin B YAWULL!

2007-01-27T22:24:00.002-07:00

That's right. So scary she demanded a second post.

Once again as I was channel surfing in the comfort of my Swedish Tempurpedic bed, I couldn't help but stop and be captivated by this train wreck. And I'm talking a C-4 fronted silver bullet through a gas-tanker that has already exploded on a playpen of puppies and kittens and babies and rainbows train wreck. Apparently she's been awarded another show on the Food Network in which she hosts some kind of dinner/cult party. How? I have no idea, I figure somebody lost a bet, died or was eaten.

She was choking up some speech about taking care of yourself, and in consternation I wondered if I was right... Maybe she had accidentally eaten someone close to her. On and on she went about taking care of your health, how she and her Santa-like hubby had quit smoking, and how this show was dedicated to "Vitamin B." Even the audience was confused at this point, and I knew something wasn't right. We had walked right in to a culinary ambush, but it was too late. "Oh no..." I thought to myself, "Sweet lord, she's talking about butter..."

"I'm talkin 'bout BUTTER YAWULL!"

*AUDIENCE CHUCKLES AND APPLAUDS*

*I CRY, BUT ODDLY AROUSED, CAN'T LOOK AWAY*

At this point my tongue had migrated back towards my tonsils in an attempt to strangle myself from within, but to no avail. She had us all completely fooled and was now moving in for the kill. What came next was so perverse that it fused through my retinas to permanently tattoo itself to the frontal lobes of my long term memory. Four shirtless barbarians entered the room carrying a massive rectangular mass of butter high aloft their shoulders on a stretcher. An Ark of the Butter-nant if you will. Paula carved out a chunk close to her body weight, and sent them back on their merry way while making some joke about her non-existent sexuality. Whether she was talking to the men or the butter, we'll never know. To her credit, the recipes she made did contain a large amount of butter: Fettucine Alfredo, Deep Fried Butter Sticks in Butter-Gravy, Butterpad Ravioli in Butter Sauce, and a light, refreshing spring-time cocktail of Butter-rum Julips.

After spending the next 30 minutes of life in shame, repenting of the sins I had just witnessed, I realized that the opening credits for this show were rolling again. That's right, the train was backing up for another pass at whatever flaming puppies/kittens/babies/rainbows it might have missed the first time around. Show number two was about to begin, and once again I was mesmerized.

First on the menu was deep fried alligator. "Dredge it the buttermilk, yawull, then the flower yawull, then the buttermilk again yawull, then the flower again yawull, then you fry it!" At least I think that was the order. I thought maybe "vomit" was one of the steps, but that could have just been something I added inbetween. Really, chicken is so plentiful these days, why go to the trouble of slaughtering your own alligator just to try a recipe? The goal is to taste like chicken right? So just go straight to the source. I dunno, maybe I'm just old-fashioned that way with all this logic and common sense. But she was about to defy all decency once again.

I literally watched in horror as she cut out squares of cold macaroni and cheese from a casserole dish, and proceeded to bread and deep fry them. What made it even worse were the skinny people all around her tasting this fecal excrement to utter delight. That was the final straw. I had to take a shower to scrub the yucky feeling out of me. Just thinking of it sends a shiver down my spine.

For the love of all that is blessedly sacred, DO NOT ENCOURAGE THIS WOMAN. That plump, lush husband of hers would be screaming in arterial pain right now had his nerves not been so dulled by the diabeetis.

Fat=TEH STOOPID!!!11!1!!ELEVENTY!!

2006-12-16T20:12:00.000-07:00

When you see a Fat Person you make assumptions. Many, if not most of them are negative. It's true, admit it. You're a horrible person.

But it's ok.

At least partially, and I'll tell you why.

This is not uncommon behavior, nor is it necessarily bad. We are trained as animals to make gut reactions to people and situations, instigating a "fight or flight" reaction. "Am I food for him, or is he food for me?" "Is this person or situation a threat or boon to my survival?" Life and death decisions used to be made solely on this initial five second intake of information. Physical observations lead to physical assumptions. Physical traits do indeed have an emotional, or even primal effect on other individuals. Many cultures admire(d) Fatness as a sign of wealth and prominence. Men sought it in women, as good weight represented a fertile body with the ability to bear young and propagate the species. Women sought it in men as evidence of an affluent provider when food and protection were scarce. Of course now in today's overly affluent cultures, unless you are cursed with a metabolism in permanent overdrive, anyone can get Fat. Oversaturation of the market by unworthy impostors has flooded the world with pretenders to greatness, and the gut instinct towards Fatness has become lost.

As man's self-awareness and conscious mind have evolved, our ego begs the question be answered "Can I take this guy?"; or "How am I better than her?" The mind becomes evermore complex. Now as we observe physical characteristics, we tend to make character judgments about intelligence and mental aptitude, wrongly believing coexistence means causality. Apples and oranges my corpulent friends... Two things that are completely different from each other and 99% of the time share no common or universal correlation.

I am a firm believer that stereotypes exist for a reason, be they accurate or not in a given individual situation. There is nothing wrong with observing trends of behavior and recognizing the possibility, or even probability of that trend applying to a certain person. The line is drawn when you assume that ALL black people are thugs, that ALL Mexicans steal cars, that ALL Fat People are lazy, eat like cows in heat, and are stupid.

The association of Fat equaling stupid is promulgated throughout television and pop culture. Look at some of the examples Hollywood has thrust upon it's herds of sheeple-viewers as the norm for intelligence, rather than the exceptions that they truly are.

Eric Cartman:

Fat and Stupid

Peter Griffin:

Don't get me wrong, he's hilarious, but it's because he's Fat and Stupid.

Fat Bastard:

Again, funny as hell, but it's because he's Fat and stupid.

Rosie O'Donnell:

Fat and Stupid. That's actually one of her better pictures. Not to be confused with:

Roseanne:

Who is also Fat and Stupid. For some reason she's also on a recent stint of political rants in an attempt to sound intelligent. Sorry, but that monotonous whine fails to help the cause of the week inbetween your incessant heavy breathing. Guess she just now realized that hitching her career on to Tom Arnold's was a big mistake. Maybe she thinks she's this guy-

Michael Moore:

Fat and Stupid.

The titanic:

Fat and Stupid (bit of a stretch I know, but would YOU run headlong into a massive iceberg?)

Who does network TV news always get live on camera playing the role of angry, uneducated, and possibly racist witness to a crime? That's right. The Fat Woman in a tube top. If you still aren't fully grasping the concept here, let me give you some examples of positive Fat role models that we should all be focusing on.

Mr. Belvedere:

Fat and Charming. Who couldn't learn something from this guy? His lessons in etiquette and behavior lasted 117 episodes over 5 seasons in the mid-1980's. Shame they don't make British tanks like that anymore.

George Foreman:

Fat and Edible. That's not a grill, it's a portable $19.99 shrine to exalt this man's greatness. Where else can you prepare twice as much meat in half the time, while catching all that grease for later? I actually own one of this guy's suits, and it is incredible.

Jabba the Hutt:

Fat and Intelligent. Sure he may have met an untimely death, but this guy was one of the biggest, baddest, smartest gangsters in the entire galaxy. Comes complete with your own Leia in Slave Outfit.

Any female model prior to 1960:
Search for your own pictures. Seriously, any example will do. These women would eat the current wafer-like excuses for models as a snack to accompany afternoon tea. And that's just the MALE models. Twice their size, and still gorgeous.

Perhaps it's time to walk you through a prime example from the movie Office Space:

Stephen Root's character Milton was assumed to be slow and incompetent-a barren wasteland of human intellect. Fat People may not necessarily have a lot of book smarts, but they clock in heavy on the street smarts. Watch as Milton enters a restricted office undetected, swipes hundreds of thousands of dollars contained in an envelope sitting in plain sight, sets the building on fire, and retires to a tropical island paradise... All under the guise of retrieving his stapler. The man is Fat and he is a genius.

So the lesson here, just as it is with any stereotype: you make assumptions about Fat People at your own risk. Not my fault if you end up inside a Sarlaac Pit Monster's yaw.

Fatiquette Part 2: Seating

2006-09-07T00:23:00.000-07:00

Theaters, airplanes, ground transportation, classroom settings... Attempts at improving comfort have been made on the ergonomic, material, and design fronts but so far the most basic and common sensical area remains a mystery to these engineering monkeys. Sheer size. In the context of Fat, bigger almost always means better. While it is true that 90% of the logistical problems in Fat seating arise due to shoddy engineering and architectural design, nearly all of these problems can be overcome with a little planning and foresight into the mutual respect that must be fostered between Fat and non-fat people.

Take your average classroom for example. If a 3rd grader cannot properly fit in a wooden desk that was handcarved during World War the First, what makes teachers or school administrators believe that a college student can, much less one of my stature? It is a proven fact that student comfort levels influence grades, and it is a school's responsibility to provide that proper learning environment (posture correction be damned). The classes I enjoyed the most, and received some of my highest marks in, were the ones that had large classrooms with a couple standalone chairs and tables in the back. My mind was free to contemplate the lecture topic of the day since the left side of my body was not completely numb. I've come to realize the confines of single seating defy reason regardless of size and stature.

Group seating is an entirely different beast, with it's own set of concerns.

I highly endorse Southwest airlines. Not only do they have cheap fares on more direct flights than you can shake a stick of butter at, but they have open seating with some of the roomiest cabins around. This means that if you have an A, B or sometimes even a C pass that is first to board, you are more than likely going to be able to snag that coveted aisle seat. You'll just have to shoot immediately to the back of the plane. Plow through any who stand in your way, be they women, children... or those arch nemesis beverage carts. On occasion you may luck out and spot an aisle seat next to a small child. SNAG THAT SEAT! This is the beacon of opportunity you've been hoping for, as pending a raised armrest, you will inevitably be able to spill over into the child's seat without causing any discomfort or invasion of space. However, some of my previous attempts to employ this tactic have been thwarted by inconsiderate parents. For some reason parents become retardedly overprotective when flying with their children, as if someone is going to kidnap them 30,000 feet in the air and disappear in a re-enactment of that terrible Jodie Foster movie. It should be a mandatory law that children must be placed in middle seats, and never next to another child. Say it's for safety purposes to prevent people from clogging the aisles. No one is safe when I get cranky due to my legs falling asleep. Hell, blame it on the war on terror... make something up so we don't waste space. You'd think that airlines would jump all over the chance to save space, right?

Case in point a recent full flight on Southwest from Phoenix to Nashville. I had boarded with my B pass, and was making a bee-line to the back of the plane. Seeing no available children I proceeded to plop down in one of the last remaining aisle seats, one row from the very back. A grown man was sitting next to the window, so I did my best to discourage any person of substance from taking the middle seat. I raised the armrest, placed my comic books in the seat next to me (I never travel wthout them), and willed my body to expand horizontally in an attempt to eliminate as much space as possible. Common depth perception usually deters most people from claiming what's left of my row in an awkward sequence of darting glances and avoided eye contact. As a flight attendant announced that this was a completely full flight a family of four was approaching the back of the plane: mom, dad, and two middle school kids. Vacant seats were located in front of me, next to me, and two behind me. I figured this would work out great. Let mom and dad sit together behind me and put the two kids in the middle seats so as not to cramp anyone's grill. Instead their ineptitude led to mom in a middle seat in front of me, one Fat Man and two lesser-men being crammed into three seats side-by-side, and two children sprawled out next to each other one row back. Remember when I said Fatiquette was a two-way street? Had a child sat next to me I would have entertained them the entire flight with comic books, stories from Fatland, and advice on how to succeed in life (Get Fat... quick). What ensued was 3-1/2 hours of blatant disregard for Fat Superiority and frequent leg-stretching trips to the lavatory/snack bar at the back of the plane.

For your viewing pleasure, observe this cheap graphic of what usually happens (inefficient) vs. what SHOULD happen (efficient). P = parent, Ch = child, ( Meeee ) = Me, I I = Aisle.

Imagine your typical plane seating as such:

As the modern age thrusts its presence upon us, many public establishments have instigated one of the most prolific advancements in Fat Promotion since fast food: the raiseable armrest. Most of the new stadium-seating theaters feature this technological marvel, with many airlines and live venues gradually following suit. It has long been the industry standard that only inner armrests on airplanes were raiseable, which greatly and unacceptably limited comfort and freedom of movement. To my surprise, the last flight I flew on allowed me to move BOTH armrests in my aisle seat, and there's no feeling like liberating your outer thighs into a wayward flight attendant's path.

In summary, the shorthand version of seating Fatiquette compels you.

1. Bigger IS better.
2. At least one empty seat in-between.
3. Fly Southwest and find aisle seats in the back of airplanes.
4. Immediately raise all armrests.
5. Make a new friend. The younger the better.

Until next time, Fat prevails.

Food Network's Paula Deen Scares Me

2006-07-01T15:51:00.000-07:00

Nothing gets me hot and bothered like the Food Network, but this woman is INSANE. Her program, Paula's Home Cooking, is an instant cold shower of arousal kill. How do you take an already unattractive pimento cheese spread and make it completely and revoltingly inedible? Mix in some heavy mayonnaise, cream cheese, and pickle relish. Season to perfection with salt and pepper (as if even that will mask the taste of vomit on the palette). She pours sweetened condensed milk on Chex mix and popcorn and calls it a creation worthy of the Food Network? It's a cullinary abortion is what it is! If this woman donates plasma or blood, you'd better hope that the recipient isn't already a diabetic, because having sweetened condensed milk pumped into your veins is an instant sugar coma. I know because I'm a recreational user, and have seen other Fat People OD.

Hey Paula! How do you get your buttercream icing so sweet?
A: Sweetened condensed milk, ya'll!

Hey Paula! What's the secret to perfect gravy?
A: Sweetened condensed milk, ya'll!

Hey Paula! What's the perfect snack, night or day?
A: Sweetened condensed milk, YAAAAWWWWUUULLLLL!

I've spent enough time living in the South to know that absolutely NOBODY talks like Paula Deen. I'm sure she has a natural Louisiana accent, but what comes off on camera is a campy, contrived attempt to market herself to the Food Network audience. Most of these "celebrity" chefs make multiple appearances, but thank the almighty Pork Fat that she only has one show to host in the afternoon hours when no one is watching. Even her own two sons are riding her flatulent fame to stardom as they are now somehow qualified to host their own show this summer.

Paula, you seem like a wonderfully charming southern belle but your performance practices in the kitchen make the baby Jesus cry. In fact, I'm going to call out the Fat female representatives on the Food Network for their consistently sub-par performances. They are just not living up to the standards bequeathed by their male counterparts. Men of increasing poundage like Mario Batali and the Immortal Emeril put your efforts to shame on a daily basis. Heck, shows like Good Eats and Unwrapped, who feature slimmed down hosts, dominate my attention in place of your paltry offerings. Still wanna complain about inequality in the workplace, and how you can do just as good a job? Then it's time to put up or shut up. Make me proud. But it won't happen by making food even Fat People won't touch.

Fat Glossary

2006-06-12T20:25:00.000-07:00

An easy quick-reference guide to more readily understand Fat terminology. This will be updated as more research into my massive greatness is performed, so a quick link has been established in the Resources section.

Buffatmosphere: The all encompassing arousal of the senses as one enters the domain of the buffet. The smell, taste, location and freshness of food. The promptness of service, the music encouraging a ninth trip to the Mongolian BBQ. Refers to the dining experience in its entirety, be it pleasureable or blasphemous.

Fatiquette: A mutual understanding between Fat People and inferior creatures respecting the laws, logistics, and expectations for Fat behavior. An established code of ethics and guidelines tailored to any public or personal situation.

Fatosphere: The section of the Earth's atmosphere reaching temperatures that force all lipids into a natural solid state, causing a euphoric sense of monumental accomplishment and arrival in those whose blood type is olive oil. It is no coincidence that this is the same temperature where sweating is completely inhibited. Fat People everywhere seek this level of attainment, for it is associated with a greater intelligence known by few, and a higher plane of existence or enlightenment. Where God, or Heaven, is thought to be found as those who reach the Fatosphere require no further sustenance.
Slang: Referring to one who has accomplished a feat requiring exceptional beauty, intelligence, fortitude, stamina, wit, or charm. Ex: "That bitch be in the Fatosphere!", he exclaimed diabetically.

Goodyear Stretch-Tread Technology: A system of interlocking treads developed naturally by Goodyear, based on patented patterns of Fat stretch marks of the "tootsie roll". One of many scientific phenomena demonstrating the evolution of Fat People into higher beings. It's true because Patrick Stewart made it so through pimped out voice-over narration.

Salad Bar: Descriptive terminology, referring to egregious pagan practices unbefitting the rank of Fat, including (but not limited to) any consumption of vegetables in proportions larger than "garnish". Fat People arm themselves with this universal battle cry to condemn heathen behavior as blasphemy, often in combination with wailing, gnashing of teeth in hunger, and wrenting of clothing so as to bring the perpetrator to repentant justice.

"Maintain Your Girth" Famous Recipes, Part 3: "Hawaiian Afternoon Delight"

2006-06-10T19:39:00.000-07:00

Summer is upon us, and I felt it necessary to provide my loyal followers with a lighter entree perfect for the time of year that makes us sweat more profusely than a whore in church. The key to summer cooking is versatility. This religious experience can be cooked outside on the grill or inside under the oven broiler, and served hot or cold, on its own, inbetween two sandwich buns or with a pasta dish. It's substantial enough to satisfy lunch and dinner plans, but light enough for a Fat Person's afternoon and midnight snack cravings. After all, a Fat Man enjoying this recipe for lunch in Hawaii requires a Fat Man on the east coast enjoying it around midnight due to the time changes. It's economical as chicken is one of the cheapest meats on the market which is a plus, but it loses marks for a lack of inherent fat content. Best of all, you can set the meat to marinate days in advance so the dish takes about 10-12 minutes to cook.

HARDWARE/SOFTWARE
9 fresh boneless, skinless chicken breasts
1 fresh pineapple (or 1 can of pineapple in juice) cut in to rings
1 bottle of Soy Vay brand Very Very Teriyaki Sauce
2 Green onions, roughly chopped
1 Heavy-duty ziplock marinade bag
1 sauce brush
2 sheets aluminum foil
1 Flat cookie sheet/baking pan
1-2 greased grill racks
Oven broiler or grill set to high

*A word about Soy Vay brand Very Very Teriyaki Sauce: It is the condiment of choice for any chicken I make. True it's a bit high end at $4-6 per bottle, but the flavor is so intense that it outweighs any other sauces on the market. This is largely due to the sesame seeds and ginger they cake at the top, so be sure to mix well prior to using. DO NOT mistake this sauce for their Island Teriyaki, as it just isn't up to my standards in terms of taste and we are adding pineapple to the mix anyway.

MARINADE:
Place the chicken breasts in your large plastic bag and combine 1/3 of the Very Very Teriyaki sauce with 1/3 can of pineapple juice, massaging the breasts until completely coated. Put the bag in a large bowl to prevent cross-contamination of bacteria and place in the fridge until you are ready to cook. The longer you can marinate your chicken the more tender, juicy, and flavor concentrated it will be but don't marinate for TOO long, say 2-3 days, or the salinity and citric acid in the mixture will prematurely begin to "cook" the meat.

PREP:
10-20 minutes before cooking, pull your chicken out of the fridge and allow it to come close to room temperature. This will ensure even cooking through all layers of the meat. Pre-heat your oven broiler to high (I prefer the open flame broilers as they seem to carmelize more efficiently, and a grill can be used just as well). Chop up some green onion for a later garnish, and cut the pineapple into roughly 1/2inch rings. Mix about 1/4 cup of the Teriyaki sauce with two table spoons of pineapple juice as a basting solution. DO NOT USE THE MARINADE FROM THE CHICKEN BAG.

Line your baking sheet with foil, and place the greased wire racks on top. The foil will catch any charred drippings and make clean-up a snap, while the racks will raise the chicken to allow some convection heat to reach the bottom side.

COOKING:
The cooking time will vary with each oven, and grills will usually take a little longer, but with the open flame broiler I had in Boston it took about 10 minutes. Place the chicken smooth side up on the wire racks, and cook on the middle oven rack for about 3-4 minutes. Pull the chicken out and flip over, basting once and returning to the oven for another 3-4 minutes. With about 2 minutes remaining, quickly remove the chicken and place a pineapple ring on top of each breast. Baste one more time with your sauce and return to the oven. What you are looking for is a little bit of charring around and on top of the rough side of the breast, or the part that faces the bone. The pineapple will become a beautiful golden brown, its sweetness intensified to contrast the teriyaki sauce. Don't overcook these bad boys, or you'll be left with jerky. Pull them out when the breasts have just a little give to them, and resting will bring your chicken to a lustful finish.

SERVING:
Load the breasts on to a platter to rest and cover with foil for about 5-8 minutes. Immediately prior to serving, garnish the meat with your chopped green onion, or try some coarsely chopped cilantro and lime juice. Put a whole breast on a bun to make a sandwich. Cut some in to chunks and add it to a salad (yuck) or cold pasta dish. Typically I serve it with, you guessed it, another batch of teriyaki/pineapple chicken. That or a pork roast. Whatever the case it only makes one serving, so remove the foil and retreat to your bedroom while asking your dinner guests "Hey... where's yours?"

There's a reason so many Hawaiian guys are the size of an island encompassing volcano. It's because they have this recipe shipped daily to their bedside by the truckload.

"Fatiquette" Part 1: The Bathroom

2006-06-06T22:54:00.000-07:00

In addition to my recurring famous recipe series "Maintain Your Girth," I am launching a new series expounding a set of guidelines for proper Fat behavior. I call this "Fatiquette".

Fatiquette in general deals with the logistics associated with greatness, be it special social occasions or day-to-day life, and encompasses the many nuanced physical or emotional characteristics that often appear to be common sense but may be taken for granted by lesser beings. It is a two way street, a mutual respect between he that is dominant (Fat) and he that is submissive (Not Fat). Like a finely tuned big-rig, it is a recognition of the effort, care, and maintenance required to promote the kingly lifestyle of a well oiled machine.

Proper behavior in the bathroom is no exception. For example, after a large meal and subsequent arrival home, Fat is given precedence as first in line for use of washroom facilities. This is due not only because of sheer imposition of size (as a Fat Person would bounce you off his gut like a bowling pin on a trampoline in a stampede towards the bathroom), but for other practical reasons. The amount of food a Fat Person has just consumed dwarfs the food supply of some third world countries and Mother Nature, who giveth in plenty, can quickly transform into a harsh mistress, demanding a tithe in return for blessings bestowed. This deference is a gamble however. Will Mother Nature demand a paltry offering of odorless liquid assets, or will she require something more of substance? While a tribute of hard currency leads to the inevitable stench from the bench, this far outweighs the other option of having a Fat Person explode Kevin Pollock-style across your living room walls.

In a public restroom setting, even though Fat is first into battle, it should be the last out. Many a brother-in-arms has faltered before me, leaving their duty and post as my wingman in combat. Long did I sit perched, diligently awaiting their return to no avail. As with anything else, genius cannot be rushed, and the artistic creations I am known to usher forth on the canvas called toilet deserve to be savored in time and reverent observance. "Masterpieces" that appeal to many senses: the smell (often so bad you can taste it), the sounds upon creation between creator and that which is created... Invoking the carnal desire to run away in fear after laughing hysterically at first sight. An abstract, murky shotgun blast. Nuggets of joy and wisdom dotting a watery landscape. A Loch Ness monster, or "Nessie", rising in defiance of a new modern world. Those who leave early miss out on a truly unique, one of a kind, multimedia presentation. Ergo the Fatiquette policy of first in, last out. Hey, I'm pooping in an art center-whaddya expect?!

Regarding Fatiquette, restroom selection is paramount. Common sense dictates that you seek solitude when dropping a deuce. Stage fright while standing is one thing, but it can cause serious problems while squatting. Think cement truck overloading and splitting at the seams. The hustle and bustle of large, heavily trafficked buildings needn't be tolerated and is usually quite easily avoided. During my tenure in college, the best places to pinch a loaf while reading or even occasionally napping were places typically avoided by most college students... Namely art centers, administration offices, and libraries. Within these locations seek out higher floor numbers where casual pedestrian traffic fails to reach. It only takes a few adventures to find that one gem of a place that keeps you coming back for more, often becoming a highlight of your day. Those of you who have experienced the President's Room bathroom at the Singletary Center for the Arts in Lexington, KY know EXACTLY what I'm talking about.

Now that you've selected a proper courtyard, we must select a proper throne. Say you're a skinny person, and you and a Fat friend want to hit up the local semi-abandoned center for the arts for a double shot of camaraderie. You walk in first and immediately take the empty handicapped stall at the end. Why not? It's usually clean from lack of use. It's got hand rails that make perfect elbow rests for reading. Ponder for a moment the ignorant implications of what you have just done. A Fat Person does not just sit down on a toilet, he must posture his cheeks such that they are spread akimbo enough not only to reduce the ratio of surface to mass contact as much as possible, but to promote proper blood circulation to the legs. The legs must be far enough apart to prevent cramping while attempting to wipe, but there is no such luck with a toilet paper dispenser inconveniently placed at leg level. A skinny, barren wasteland of a person wastes space when using a handicapped stall. Space that could obviously have been used by the now sweaty, heavy breathing elephant being forced to poop sideways one stall over from you. Remember this picture as his Fat legs maneuver into a desperate figure four posture, with one inevitably spazming straight out and under the stall divider in an invasion of your own space. If you are flying solo, the rules of common sense still apply when trying to locate a vacant restroom and subsequent handicapped stall. Go upwards! Logic dictates that wheelchairs don't mix well with stairs, so head to the 5th floor. If two Fat People walk in to a public bathroom at the same time, the simple rules of calling "shotgun" apply.

It is my royal decree that if you can stankify a bathroom, personal or public, to the point where every person in a 20 foot radius is immediately turned about and driven from the scene in revulsion, then not only do you have talent but you have earned the right to claim said bathroom as your Fat Domain. Let those brave enough to enter revel and wallow silently in the wafting aroma of your inner greatness that is now being passed into the outer sanctum of porcelain shrinery and beyond- to the foyer of whatever theater, school, or church function you are attending.

Throughout the course of the day, many Fat activities can promote a condition called mud butt. Events like eating, turning your head to one direction, heavy breathing, walking too far without adequate rest... They all lead to the accumulation of sweat in the trousers. Sweat alone is usually not enough to set off noticeable irritation, but when it mixes with the remnants of an army better left dead and buried, disaster is prone to strike.

Case in point. A close friend of mine in college was infamous for constantly scratching his itchy butt. He never understood what was wrong and one day sought my advice on the matter. We often shared the Singletary experience together and I knew immediately that the problem was a deficient wiping technique. I asked if he checked his wipes regularly to ensure a clean and prosperous playground, and his reply was "No, not really, I just wipe a couple times and go." Bingo. I told him to issue a "courtesy wipe" after every visit. Even when you think you are completely clean and dry, even after you KNOW you are clean and dry by physical observation, you issue one last and final "courtesy wipe" as psychological assurance that mud butt has been avoided. A week later this friend told me I was dead on target in addressing his problem. Courtesy wipe policy initiated, goodbye itchy crack.

There is a bathroom technique used among certain sects of Fatness called "manpon". In an attempt to prevent squirtage, staining or otherwise uncontrollable leaks, sheets of toilet paper are neatly folded and placed between the buttocks immediately prior to leaving. To my knowledge this technique is more tradition rather than actual effectiveness, and should be approached with informed caution. Keep in mind that public restroom toilet paper, 99% of the time, is not two-ply soft. In terms of absorbency, pliability, and comfort, using this sub-standard wiping material is no different than shoving a graduate term paper between your cheeks. Thus, I declare the use of a manpon is reserved for extreme Fatiquette emergencies only. Don't generate one of these and then try to run a jungle marathon with a horde of midget Amazon women chasing after you. You'll still have mud butt within 5 minutes, and most likely bleed out from paper cuts before reaching the edge of the village. As usual, only practice within the walls of your own sanctum can reveal what materials and techniques work best for you. Just don't forget what you've put where in the comfort of your own home.

So let us recap official Bathroom Fatiquette, shall we?

1. First in by necessity or out of reverence, last out by choice.
2. Shot selection improves your game.
3. Always park handicapped.
4. You stank it, you own it.
5. Courtesy wipe.
6. Manpon in emergencies only.

Next up is another recipe to bulk up the heathen over the summer. 'Til then...

*UPDATE!
For those of you wondering, my dumps look something like this (Notice the handicapped rails):

Mysteries of the Chinese Buffet

2006-05-29T14:27:00.000-07:00

As a patron of bastardly Americanized Oriental cuisine, I have noticed a few common threads permeating the modern Chinese Buffet scene that I feel need to be brought to light. If you are prudent in your dining practices, as you should be, it would behoove you to call ahead of time when finding a new buffet to plug your nether-void of a mouth. Let me begin by offering a transcript of a recent phone conversation:

Yao Ming: Haro, welcomebuffetchinatogreat... (I can never really make the initial greeting out, but I remain undeterred).
Me: Hi, I'm interested in how many items you have on your buffet?
Yao Ming: Ahhh, we have a wa-hundred sixty items ona buffet.
Me: Ah. Hmmm...
Yao Ming: ...Isa that enough items for you? Hahah!!
Me: ...Hm? Oh, sorry, yes I believe so. Do you have a Mongolian BBQ?
Yao Ming: Ah no, so sorry.
Me: Hm... ok, thanks a lot.

Let me explain what's going through my mind towards the tail end of this conversation. My hesitancy is three-fold. Most places have become deceptive in their advertising in an attempt to bring in business, rather than make sure that quality of food and service is high enough to bring back customers. Your average buffet cart holds about 16 pans of food, each pan representing one item. You would need 10 buffet carts to adequately hold these sacraments. A true 160 item buffet, with adequate space inbetween carts for fat maneuvering would take up an entire basketball court, and it's safe to say that there just aren't very many restaurants with that kind of space. The heart of the matter is that the definition of "item" drastically changes the second you step into a Chinese buffet. I'm sorry, but 12 different salad dressings on a useless salad bar does not count as 12 different items. Orange Jello does not count as an item, nor does the green Jello, orange slices, or tapioca pudding sitting next to it. Why is Jello even offered on a Chinese buffet to begin with? If anything it should be stuffed into a nipple bottle at each table for direct squirtage into a patron's mouth. In any case, I regard this "160 item" claim as flat out deception, and to boot my greatness is insulted by the mere thought that Jello could appease me.

The second dangerous trend that I am noticing is a lack of diversity in the quality food offerings that they DO have. Commonly known as "cookie cutter Chinese", many restaurants are starting to receive distribution from the same companies as their competition. Take the dessert bar for instance. Seriously, why even bother? Your soft-serve ice cream is more ice than cream, and if you're lucky you may get a Hershey's syrup bottle to top it off (I always do because I carry one in my tool belt). Large sheets of bland cake lie next to puffs of bread that have had a cream-like substance conservatively placed inside. The only item even remotely appealing is those coconut cake cookies that are way too small to begin with. Even the quality of fortune cookies is declining. Most are usually inedible anyway, but I expect at the very least a fortune written coherently in English with lucky numbers and a "Learn Chinese" phrase on the back, as well as the occasional double fortune message that caps off the meal's conquest with a sense of useless accomplishment.

Now, let it not be said that the buffet scene is all doom and gloom. There have been some advancements made in the food now being offered. Some of the best places I have been to offer a variety of hot teas, be they green, mint, black, whatever. If the food is lukewarm and swimming in more oil than a 50's grease mullet, then this helps cleanse the pallet. A little lemon and some sweetener and I'm golden for the entire visit, but the best part is those stainless steel tea pots. Surely the Chinese discovered atomic radiation somewhere around the second millennia, BC because those things never go tepid. Now if only they could keep their food as hot and fresh.

Sushi: Now this is a recent advancement that I can get behind. What better way to start off your buffet than with an appetizer or twelve prior to your hot and sour soup? California rolls, tuna... The choices can be confusing, but some of the offerings perplex me. I refuse to have my intelligence insulted when pimento cheese spread and seafood salad are wrapped up in rice rolls and presented as acceptable fare. I'm not some cow that can be pushed up to a trough and fed mediocrity through vile trickery. I can only hope to aspire to such greatness. And I demand more dipping sauces. Wasabi, spicy mustard, ginger, and chili oil are great and all but I'm not looking to remove my tonsils. Give me that sweet soy-based sauce that I can mix other items with to cover up the taste of your sub-par sushi. Only one place I've been to has offered this, but to my dismay they removed it from the menu recently.

The last part of this phone conversation deals with a subject near and dear to my heart. Mongolian Grill vs. Buffet: Too many times are we faced with this forced, artificial decision. Some Mongolian BBQ places aren't even all-you-can-eat and charge per trip, but the medium remains unbeaten in areas of creativity of dishes, choice of ingredients and available sauces, freshness of food, and speed of delivery. It's uniqueness stems from the fact that this is one of the few settings where consumption of vegetables is not only appropriate but tastily endorsed with my seal of approval. True fatness can only be achieved at restaurants that offer both options. An educated gorger will load up the Mongo first, then finish his first trip to the buffet right about the time the chef rings the bell signifying "Mission Accomplished". Your reward for multi-tasking is a steaming pile of chicken/shrimp with pineapple, green/white onion, mushrooms, sprouts, broccoli, carrot, noodles, and house sauce.

The last area of concern deals with the atmosphere that has developed at Chinese buffets across America. Call it "Buffatmosphere" if you like. We have all come to expect that our "waiter/waitress" will not speak any English past the necessary "something to drink?" and "Thank you sir, have nice day, sir." This is par for the course. I'm talking about the smell... That initial shock of "whoa" as you walk through the door. It's a mixture of stale, tepid food that has been spilled and trampled into the carpet, and crab legs that have been sitting under a heat lamp for the better part of a day (and are probably a few days overdue anyway). This is a minor complaint since most people adjust within a couple of minutes, but it still takes something away from the enjoyment of the experience.

The biggest complaint about "Buffatmosphere" is the music playing in the background. I think I've figured out that Chinese people want to provide enjoyable music, they're just 10 years behind the curve. This is evidenced by their selection of Kenny G and other 90's "classics" that have been brutally adapted and re-arranged for solo three-knuckled Chinese-bear pan-flute, and then performed by sub-par musicians. I swear if I hear that blasted Titanic song, or Classics in the Key of G one more time, I am going to take all 20 Chinese people working at the restaurant, put them in a wok, and serve them with sweet and sour sauce. "Wa-hundred eighty items now on buffet! BWAHAHAHAHAAAA!" Of course that's using their own deceptive business practices, and since I am beyond reproach, it would really only be 161 items ona buffet. Please people, with the exception of a couple summer months there is always a wide selection of sports games on the radio dial, or at least some neutral, conversation inducing classical music in its unadulterated state.

So what can be done? What activist yet calorie saving approach can we take to ensure a better dining experience? The growing number of people in the world means individual efforts are usually diminished and meaningless, but I still say vote with your dollars by supporting the best places in town. Send the message that mediocrity is unacceptable. If nothing else, voice your concerns and menu suggestions at the counter as you pay for your meal. They probably won't understand you anyway, but you can at least say you tried.

"Maintain Your Girth" Famous Recipes, Part 2: "Thy Holy Easter Brick"

2006-04-15T14:19:00.000-07:00

Holy Gluttonous Double Post! In honor of Easter, and a certain Girl who claims to have never had a pork roast before, I am pleased to present the following recipe:

"Thy Holy Easter Brick"

Ingredients and Hardware:
1 boneless pork loin roast, 3-5lbs.
2 medium sweet vidalia onion
4 large carrots
6 medium potatoes, unpeeled
Olive Oil
2 sprigs of thyme
McCormick Grill Mates® Montreal Steak Seasoning
325 degree F oven
Large skillet (stainless steel works best)
9x13 oven-safe corningware dish
tin foil or cover for dish

NOTE: Looking at my trusty McCormick Grill Mates® Montreal Steak Seasoning label, I see it contains the following in one, easy to use dispensor: coarse sea salt, dried minced garlic, black and red pepper, coriander seed, dill weed, and paprika. It's also available in a spicy version should you desire. Rather than preparing each spice one by one, this handy mix saves time, and saving time saves calories.

Directions:
Preheat your oven on bake to 325 degrees F.

Select a roast that still has some good fat on the top for marbling. Clean and cut the onions and potatoes in half, and cut the carrots into good sized chunks.

Liberally sprinkle your steak seasoning into the corningware dish, and massage into all sides of the pork roast. Some people might suggest making little slits in the roast and stuffing garlic cloves in it, but I find that the more piercings in the meat, the faster it dries out, and there's already garlic in the seasoning and the mashed potatoes anyway.

Fill the saucepan with a few tablespoons of olive oil (canola oil works too) from your Nalgene thermos, and sear each side of the roast for about 3 minutes on medium/high heat. Searing will lock in moisture, form a nice outer crust for texture, and the remaining seasoning, oil, rendered pork fat and brown bits can be used to make a rather tasty gravy. And gravy, in Fatland, is NOT an option. It is a NECESSITY! If I catch any of you not eating gravy then you will be banished to the blighted lands outside Fatland's weight retaining wall, where people eat salads and such nonsensery.

Place the roast back in the corningware dish, and place the vegetables and thyme around it in whatever fashion you so choose. Cook it uncovered for about 20 minutes, then cover the roast with foil for the remainder of cooking time, generally 20-25 minutes per pound.

Next comes perhaps the most important step! Insert a meat thermometer into the center of the roast, and remove it from the oven when the fallace reads 135-140 degrees F. "But master, pork needs to be cooked to 160 degrees in order to be sanitary *PLUCK*...*PLUCK*" Here that? That's the sound of what will happen to the next person who babbles this old wives tale to me. They get their eyes sucked out of their skull with a turkey baster for garnish! Sanitation today has come a looong way since the stone age when your grandmother was cooking pork, and the grain-fed pigs of today are not fed the slop of yester-year when trichinosis bacteria was a problem. Cooking TO 160 degrees is blasphemy, resulting in just plain dry and overcooked meat. And don't jam that thermometer too much! The more piercings you make, the more juices that will escape.

Resting the covered meat for 10-20 minutes allows the juices to redistribute, and the internal temperature will finish off right around 150-155 degrees F. The result is the most tender, flavorful brick of meat from Heaven you will ever rub across your chest or shove down your gullet. The onions and carrots will be fully cooked yet tender, sweet and savory, and the potatoes will be roasted and ready to mash with some butter, half and half, and roasted garlic. There will be lots of pan juices to baste the roast or your vegetables with, and portions of it can be reserved for GRAVY!

Now before we eat, let us say the blessing for this Easter meal:
The pork is my shepherd, I shall always want it.
He maketh me lie down for nap time;
He ladleth me out the brown gravy,
He restoreth my calories burned;
He leadeth me in the path of Fatness, for his names' sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Health Foods,
I shall fear no evil, for thou art in my belly;
Thy cutlery and seasonings, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies;
Thou annointest my head with extra virgin olive or canola oil; My Nalgene bottle runneth over.

Surely heart attacks and obesity shall follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in my House's Kitchen forever.

ACHEM!

Jewish people don't know what they are missing.

MMFfmfmMMFFMLLLGHH!!!! GASP ROLL OVER!! YES!!! -or- An Army of One Part II

2006-04-15T14:12:00.000-07:00

Now that the undeniable logic behind my first post has been firmly established, it's time to take the topic one step further. My knowledge has been requested by a rather skinny, sexy woman as to why Fat People make better lovers.

While it is in part true that "there's more to go around" and the "motion of the ocean causes a great commotion", I prefer to dispense with these lame pick-up lines. These are the trite, snivelling dribble that unenlightened Fat People utter in an attempt to boost their self confidence as they desperately stuff their faces with a baker's dozen of day-old Krispy Kreme's while crying tears of sweet jelly glaze. That reminds me... be right back.

The "motion of the ocean", while a novel concept is a logistical nightmare. If you're using a good extra-virgin olive oil during coitus (as you rightly should since it contains a high smoking point) it will prevent your good lady friend from remaining atop the Mount of Olive's for more than 8 seconds. All it will do is make her sea-sick and unless your fettish is vomit, sleeping on the coutch sans bumping uglies will be your only choice.

It all basically comes down to a simple combination of characteristics native to any beast of burden. Girth, and a ceaseless, powerful persistence to finish the job. And while perhaps bullish in appearance, Fat People bring so much more to the lustful table than any mere average water buffalo.

A Fat Person's body is built to last. We are the offensive linemen in the football stadium called your bedroom. Without Fat People, nothing gets accomplished on the field, be it offense OR defense. You just go three and out, punt the ball away, get booed off the playing field only to sit on the bench next to all the other skinny guys waiting for a second chance. What's even more impressive is that ANY show of stamina by a Fat Person is unexpected, and therefore an added bonus to the experience. You are an ustoppable (and well oiled, I might add) Sherman tank that will never stop until reaching Berlin, rolling over and conquering all that is in your path. Enemy fire, natural vegetation- all is laid waste beneath your Goodyear Stretch-Treads. The ladies loooove the girth. This ain't no small arms fire being brought to bear, it's the tank-busting mother-load that clears buildings. You know you're enjoying a Fat Man's company when the "throes of passion" literally become the "throws of passion." Every woman who has had her head smashed through a wall, and failed to notice for the pleasure far surpassing the pain, knows exactly what I'm talking about.

A Fat lover also brings a certain economic value to the table. There's a reason that whale blubber ruled the oil industry for the majority of history prior to the industrial revolution. The insulator that makes us sweat 24/7 is the same heat blanket that will keep you warm throughout the night, and in God-forsaken areas like the north east where gas and electric heating bills reach upwards of $500 a month, the money saving implications are evident. Switching to Fatco can save you 15% or more on your heating bill and insurance.

So remember girth, stamina, and powerful persistence. A Fat Person will love you forever if your spine doesn't snap under 10 tons of metric force. And bringing Krispy Kreme doesn't hurt.

Fat Fashion - An Army of One

2006-01-13T19:29:00.000-07:00

I was recently asked this question by another rather attractive skinny woman:

Why do Fat People choose to wear belly shirts?

To grasp the answer I feel it is necessary to understand the issue in a larger context, that being why Fat People don't wear clothing that fits. Case in point, I was recently attending a gastric intervention at my local El Pollo Loco, when in rolls a 2-ton WWII vintage Sherman tank of a woman wearing a belly shirt that fails to conceal her Goodyear Stretch-tread tire of a stomach. I am a firm believer that if you got it, you should flaunt it, but for the love of all that's sacred if you've got too much of it you shouldn't flaunt it too much. Even as she ordered the entire salsa bar, the poor thing kept trying to pull her shirt down, but it kept snapping back in place like her bra was a sanctuary to hide from the world in. What makes it worse is the Fat Man accompanying her (you know, birds of a feather) didn't even mention anything to her about her unsightly gut cleavage.

Even though I am not an advocate of frequently claiming victimization, in this case I blame the fashion industry. Fat clothing just isn't being made, and what is being made isn't done properly. The only clothing that is even remotely close to acceptable is sweat pants, and we all know how unfashionable those are, be you Fat or unfat. It makes sense that if the majority of our population is overweight as many sources claim, there should be a host of more viable Fat garb available. Not only should there be a Big and Tall section in every retail store, each DEPARTMENT should have a Big and Tall section. Men's, women's, children's, housewares, you name it. In fact, screw that. The whole store should be Fat, with a small section in the corner labelled "Dangerously Underweight" since petite is just a little too PC to be accurate.

Fat used to represent status and wealth, but now it is ostracized and relegated to being ignored. No one wants to talk about it anymore. You know that fat elephant in the room eating peanut butter that no one wants to talk about? THAT'S ME!!!!

Whatever retailer or industrial supply depot figures this out first stands to make a hefty fortune. Fat People are begging for an outfitter to address their individualized needs. We're tired of spending our hard-earned butter laiden dollars buying three $75 pairs of Abercrombie jeans, just to rip them all in half only to be sewn back together in a Quasi-Modo manner so they can fit us. It works, but resembling a one ton Shelob spider monster with four extra pant legs hanging about is hardly practical.

To this end, I believe that there is one institution that will rise to the occasion. No group is more disciplined, organized, well-funded, and on the cutting edge of technology than the Army. Tent tarps and parachute material have proven durable enough to weather two World Wars and numerous American conflicts, yet are lightweight enough to prevent a good portion of sweatage. The Army will clothe (and hopefully feed) an Army of one! The next plane of Fat evolution will see Stretch-Tread Technology harden and develop into kevlar vest material and bulletproof armor plating, much like our kin the mighty and noble Armadillo. This armor will absorb small-arms fire and propel ordinance back out at the shooter, whilst layers of fat underneath will act as inertial dampers to absorb the shock of artillery fire and land mine explosions. Fat People will indeed rule the world. This practicality will become fashionable, as numerous camouflage designs will be made available. All that will need to happen is for one popular international designer to say it's the next big thing. Everyone else will lock in step. What would make a designer consent to this seemingly irrational behavior? A Sherman tank muzzle aimed at the face, that's what!

So bulk up for the fashion revolution! Incidentally, after hearing this wisdom, the lovely lady who posed this question immediately came to the conclusion that Fat People were immortal. Which we are. And remember padawans, Fat is just one vowel away from being Fit.

"Maintain Your Girth" Famous Recipes, Part 1: Stein's Krissmus Puddin'

2005-12-20T11:17:00.000-07:00

So here's the dish. This recipe was inspired during instant message discussions with my friend Jason Stein. This fellow fat man had spent an entire semester in England, and was sorely disappointed with their cuisine's lack of flavor. So we decided to take your average guacamole and turn it into something special in honor of his return. What better way to maintain your massive presence this Holiday season than by spooning heaping shovel loads of festive colored fat down your pie-hole?

What makes it Krissmussy? It's green and it's red and past that you won't care because you'll be in a diabetic coma. So shut the hell up and wrap your lips around this delicacy. And all you nose-ringed English majors who pour over-priced coffee for a living, don't be all whiny and jump down my massive throat just because I like debasing the English language by spelling Krissmus a gifted way.

3 avacados
4 strips of bacon (2 for the recipe and 2 to keep on hand for snackage and calorie loss prevention)
2 cloves garlic
1 small red onion
1 small tomato
small jalapeno pepper
1/2 lemon
1 lime
salt
pepper
dash of Tabasco sauce
Dumpster-o-Corn Chips
I.V. Machine

First thing to do is cook the bacon, not only because it's the longest step in the process, but it fills the kitchen with that bacon smell that drives Fat People to conquer third world countries. When it's good and crispy, finely chop two slices up and reward your self with the other two for a job well done. Bury it, frame it, I don't care, but I'd recommend eating it because cooking burns calories and we need to stock up. Throw it in a medium size mixing bowl, keeping in mind that if you are of true greatness, you could leave the bacon grease in.

Cut the avacados in half length-wise, and twist off one half. If you lack courage you can remove the large seed with a spoon, but true Ministers of Fat jam a knife in it and yank the seed out. Score the flesh of each avocado with a knife and spoon it into a bowl. Mash it up, leaving chunks to your preference, and then apply a splash of Tabasco, and lemon and lime juice to prevent oxidation and preserve the baby-diarrhea-green color. Put a fine mince to the garlic and jalapeno pepper, while keeping the red onion at a coarse chop for texture. Salt and pepper to taste. The Tabasco will add a nice warmth in combination with the bite of the jalapeno and I would keep the chopped tomato seperate until you are ready to eat, as it will just get soggy in the guacamole after too long. Let the whole mixture marinate overnight for best results. By the next morning the garlic will have mellowed a bit, but you'll need to add a little more lime juice as I find the flavor will have all but disappeared.

This recipe can be expanded to add more taste and fat content by adding warm melted Velveeta cheese or sour cream just before the desired time of oral entry. Or more bacon. So hook yourself up to a guacamole I.V. and back that Dumpster-o-Tortilla Chips up to your face because you won't be able to get it in your mouth fast enough. You definately won't be going anywhere until completely finished.

Fat Transportation - Land Rovers Unite!!!!

2005-12-12T12:05:00.000-07:00

Tired of parking at out-of-order meters and still being ticketed by a meter-bitch whose job provides absolutely zero positive benefit to society?

Does the gaul of towing companies stealing your car unbeknownst to you and calling it a "service" boil your blood type from A- to Ragu Old world Style?

Has the thrill of racing against the above-ground T-Rail in an attempt to cheat death while on your way to buy groceries lost its rush?

Tired of buses that cramp the right lane and cause more accidents than there are people who actually ride them?

Disappointed when a blind homeless guy BM's in the last seat available on the subway and asks you for change as you plop down unknowingly in to said vacated seat?

Tired of fennel smelling taxi drivers who no-speaky-the-English-not-very-okay dropping you off in the ghetto part of town to be raped an pillaged? Well then Fat People everywhere, heed my almighty words!

Buy stock in GOLF CARTS! Running on electricity (and sometimes propane for those of us over the quarter-ton mark) golf carts are clean, efficient, and environmentally safe. Spacious enough to fit two Fat People or three other lamp-post shaped friends, these heaven-sent chariots have plenty of horsepower, yet are compact enough to take off-road in parking lots and on school grounds on the way to your unmarked, untowable, unticketable parking spot. Charge your friends for rides to class, to the stadium, wherever they want to go, and leave it wherever you want with the security of knowing that just about no one on God's pastry-filled earth has any idea how to hotwire and steal a golf cart.

To hell with the subway/T-rail. Golf carts are the way of the future. Or at least they were... Until now!

Fat People are evolving a system of bodily transportation years beyond our time. That's right, those stretch marks you see are actually an intricately designed interlocking tread system, delivering gripping power as we roll about horizontally towards our destination. It has taken hundreds of years for these body marks to become calloused entities capable of independent thought and adaptation, but the hour of arrival is now at hand. Feet and legs will be realized as the transportation objects of planned obsolescence that they are. I have it on good authority from an inside source at Goodyear that soon there will be an interchangeable system of Stretch-Tread Technology(tm) for Fat People, good for traction assurance in ANY weather. Snow, rain, sand, ice, Chinese buffet-tile-floors... nothing will stop this beached whale from reaching his proverbial home back in the ocean. And by ocean I mean that Chinese buffet. We even have Patrick Stewart signed on for a one year contract to provide advertising voice-overs. Stewart loves the fat, and so should you.

But this pinnacle of evolutionary superiority doesn't stop at mere practicality. Over time these markings have taken on a symbolic, unique, almost sacred tribal meaning. Accentuate your markings with a full line of Land-Monster(also tm) accessories including chrome plating finish, spinning waist-belt rims, and fuzzy dice for your neck/rearview mirror. Customer service will be a top priority. Stretch-Tread Technology(tm once again) will also come with an unconditional 45MPH guarantee on downward slopes. Should your tread fail under any circumstances, up to the speed of 45MPH at which point innertial forces cause fat to lift off the ground in a bouncing effect, it will be replaced free of charge. While we are servicing your waistline externally, you can do the same internally. While you wait for our trained technicians to finish your repair, hook yourself up to our complementary intraveinous ice cream machine to recharge all those calories you burned rolling to the shop. What's the next evolutionary step you might ask? Probably a self-contained, internal, high octane fuel/power source for those upward slopes. And we all know that there is plenty of nitrous gasses to go around.

So next time, when you catch a glimpse of what lies underneath a Fat Person's shirt, stem your initial reaction to gouge out your own eyes with a plastic turkey baster and stand in awe of what lies atop the transportational food chain. Ride that coveted Fat Person all the way home and keep him for life. And keep the turkey baster... we like those a lot.

Fat People Are Better Than You

2005-12-08T22:30:00.000-07:00

In fact, they are so much better than you that the sheer name deserves to become a proper noun. From now on, by my Burger Kingly decree, we shall all capitalize the term Fat People (and its singular form Fat Person) to show the proper respect. Unless its a woman. Then they will be referred to as fat chick.

Now I know what you're thinking. "blah blah Skinny people have more sex blah blah BEEEELCH!"... Well hogs balls to that, and here's why. According to Men's Health Magazine, the Average Guy has sex 1.5 times a week (79 times a year), and lasts about 14 minutes. He's about 5-feet-9 and weighs 175 pounds. Since the running joke is that Fat People are so fat that they have their own center of gravity, let's assume that your average fat person is 5-feet-9 and weighs the same as this God-forsaken planet called Earth. This equals roughly 10×10 (to the 24th power) lbs, or ten septillion pounds. Now, also assuming that this Fat Person will get lucky even just once in his life, (either by accident, inebriation, trickery or transaction of funds) this Fat Person is having more sex per capita pound than 100 J. Crew models have in their lifetime. Including the gay ones.

So even if you, as a featherweight that I could snap in half by breaking wind, had sex non-stop for the rest of your life, you'll still be second tier to my girth and greatness. See, I know I'll have a heart attack at age 45 because a Wendy's triple scalp burger smothered in chili and dipped in concentrated Frosty mix will wedge itself in my right aortic chamber. But your heart will flat out explode at the age of 35 from the sheer force of just trying to have more sex than me. I'll take those odds any day.

So just accept it. Bow to Fat People as your superiors. Deal with it. Cope by drinking your way out of a bath tub full room-temperature Crisco. At least then you might have the chance of becoming one of us.

By the way, I picked this green apple Jolly Rancher color for my blog not only because it is hands down the best flavor out there, it's the color a Fat Person's stool takes on when they become as massive as the Earth itself.