Revival Of The Fattest

With my recent spate of travel to such distant and occasionally dismal locales such as Munich, Las Vegas, Curacao, and, regrettably, Ohio, I’ve been neglecting a promise I made to a very special young boy long, long ago. That special youngster was me, of course, and the promise I made to myself was that through a strict regimen of carefully planned diet and controlled exercise, grow to become the most disgustingly obese sack of human sloth to ever be crane-lifted from a La-Z-Boy and deposited on his early, plus-sized deathbed. Shame of all shames, I’ve been spending far too little time gorging wildly at the slightest hunger pang, and far too much physically exerting myself in such unnatural activities as walking, lifting objects, and extraneous “insurance” wiping (any more than four wipes, and Freud says you’re anal-centric, or you’re forgetting to spread your cheeks when you poop).


As a result, my campaign for mayor of Fat City has suffered a Dukakish setback. For instance, whilst admiring this season’s crop of back acne, I noticed a peculiar bulge suspiciously absent of pus – low and behold, it was a trapezoid! Panicking, I flexed my right arm and, to my horror, a bicep appeared! Thank heavens, when I checked my stomach it was still as pudgy and formless as ever, but I’m not embarrassed to tell you fine people that I was frightened for a moment. What if a chiseled midsection appeared in the reflection? Or those V-shaped muscles for which every young, attractive woman seems to lust since Brad Pitt sported them in Fight Club? I don’t think I could survive under such conditions. As it is, a day rarely passes that I don’t have to file another restraining order against a John-crazed female who can’t get enough of my mojo. Had I classic beauty features as well, I’d have to invest in a four-wheeler to sludge through the puddles of quim juice erupting from every vagina within a 50 foot perimeter. I mean, it just doesn’t seem right if a woman can suck my dick without wearing my gut like a forehead pancake.


To get myself back on the righteous path to hog heaven, I’ve dedicated the upcoming weekend to re-fattening myself for the kill – plump up, pork out, and get my swell-on in all the right places. I’ve dealt with adversities like this before (the Great Cocaine Snortfest of ’01), so I’m no stranger to getting fat again in a hurry. The secret, is late night eating. With your last ounce of strength before you retire for the evening, consume as many fatty substances as possible, and wash them down with a heaping of carbohydrates to send that lard to all the sweet spots. I’ve found that Krystals (a.k.a. White Castle or Chez Le Blanc), with its ideal combination of turd-slicking greasiness and processed carbo-deliciousness will shackle even the speediest metabolism.


Rest assured, I’ll be putting in some long hours at Krystals this weekend – pray for me and soon-to-be distended belly, friends. There is work to be done.