Christmastime in the Emerald City

{June 26, 2007}   Why Fat People Can Kiss The Fattest Part Of MY Ass

First, let me clarify my definition of fat. I am by no means the most slender girl on the block. Goddamn if I don’t love my occasional eighteen thousand calorie latte. And I know that when you settle into your nine to five grind, heaven knows eventually spitting out a kid or two, the body starts to sag and the will to drag your ass around the block a few times becomes little more than a dream. Neither am I talking about the tall and mesomorphic. Hell, most guys I date fall far on the heavy side. One of my favourite friends is built like an ogre: tall and massive. But he is not what I would call fat. Fat to me is something entirely different that has more to do with your brain than your body.

Fat is someone on the Learning Channel in one of those specialized hospitals that the rest of us fucking pay for, cramming cheeseburgers into their mouths and crying about how they are addicted. Fuck you. Fuck you and the fattest part of your mother. Food makes you happy, yes, it dumps endorphins into your brain. So does medication you fat fuck. So does chocolate for that matter, and sex. Hell, sex is even good for exercise. You’d be getting more of it if you weren’t such a fat bastard. Food is not heroin. You will not fall over into a vomiting, shitting, shaking mess if your FritoLays are taken away from you, so fuck off about your ‘addiction’.

Fat is the Winners-enrobed twit next to me in line waiting for her starbucks,  going into great detail with her friend about how her latest diet is perfect because it gives her a schedule of exactly what to eat when and how it fits her nine to five oh-so-well, as though her schedule were somehow difficult. Since when the fuck do you need someone to tell you when to eat? Didn’t your mother stop doing that when you were five? Your body tells you when to eat, you dumb chubby moron, and if you listened to it, you wouldn’t be a dumb chubby moron in the first place! Drag yourself around the block. Or better yet, instead of sending back your latte because you didn’t want foam, spend the ten calories by lifting your arm and scooping it out yourself. That’s the only thing the barrista is going to do anyways.

Fat is also the reoccuring bitch on the bus who takes up two seats with her blubber and half of the aisle in front of her as well, as her back-fat pushes the rest of the monstrosity that is her body far enough forward that she may as well collect pity money between her giant tits. Fat is her great doughy ball of a hand as she holds her cell phone to her ear and loudly, LOUDLY yammers away to some coworker or another about what a bitch the boss is. Verbatim, the boss is such a bitch, while some too-polite mother at the back of the bus who can hear this whale just as well as everybody else within a 20-yard radius clamps her hands over the tender ears of her five year old, who will now undoubtedly ask her mommy what a bitch is anyways.

Fat is less an issue of weight and more one of volume and whining. If you just sat there and kept your goddamned mouth shut, I might be kind enough to write you off as a walking glandular problem. I wouldn’t hate you on sight. It’s your goddamned accessories that make you a fat person, the way you have to make it nothing less than your absolute identity.

Fuck you, fuck your pink iPod mini, your knock-off BabyPhat purse (the emblem of which, a slinky cat, has to be some kind of sick joke on fat people that even I’m not cruel enough to rocket over their heads), your black stripey wardrobe, your cell phone and it’s obnoxious hip-hop ring, your gargantuan earrings that in fact do NOT serve to make your face look any smaller, your ridiculous ankle-bloating pumps, and your fat fucking waddle that blocks the rest of us from getting off the bus without having to wait for you to shift the sausage poles that are your legs out of the way.

That girl needs to get the fuck off my bus and walk. The rest of them need to get the fuck out of my way and either walk, shut up, or drop dead.

Death by cheeseburger overdose. Far more delicious than heroin.


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