For myself as much as anything, this is a honest, systematic evaluation of an adult life spent entombed in a gelatinous casing of semi-solidified doner meat.
Let me give you a humid insight into the various warring factions that comprise a fat man’s nether regions and the never ending cyclical, destructive battle of discomfort in which they are locked into.
It begins with the bumhole forcibly inhaling the undergarments, vacuum packing an already clammy package. The boxers then peel and ride, devolving into ill-fitting cheesewire lingerie, sawing into his crevices like an inexperienced assassin’s garrotte.
Without instant intervention a heavyweight’s boxers will furl aggressively titward, leaving those in his wake encapsulated by two slivers of blubbery flesh, bulging beneath a whorish whale tale.
This reignites the grudge match between the long feuding inner thighs. They collide and scrape, braille-like chafing their battle-scars.
Not wanting to be excluded, the waistband chips in, engraving
into his paunch.
So constant a wedgy the fat man suffers, he announces a stable underwear situation.
Unpick. Unfold. Repeat.
TRANSPORT AND LEISURE SEATING ADVANTAGES
As the fat man wades his way down the aisle, commuters guard spots with briefcases; with fearful, darting glances, dispersed friends consolidate into pairs.
No one wants to split a seat with a fattyboombatty.
Likewise, when you are sat down, your free seat is rejected by all, leaving you to unfold your heft freely. Those exhausted of options that do plonk down, perch on the very edge, unwilling to brush with weighty vibrating thigh meat.
The same fudgy logic applies to securing armrests on planes. If you are on the verge of being forced to purchase another seat, splurging out and leveling your armrest opponent will prove a wobbly doddle. Same goes for copping a cinema drink holder for each of your multi-litre drinks.
Enough bulk even outweighs the noble code of shotgun. If the backseat passengers of a hatchback plan on breathing, the front seat will be bestowed upon the portly, regardless of their reaction times.
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Transporting a moob duo and accompanying well stocked bread basket is similar to piggybacking a clingy pudger of a toddler around from dusk to dawn. The fat man’s limbs are forever bogged down by their jiggly coating.
Upon hauling your flabby anatomy up a flight of stairs, you gasp and splutter at the towering interest rates of your oxygen debt.
WATER PARK BENEFITS
There’s a fat chance anyone with an unimpeded bird’s eye view of their own schlong has ever experienced a water park fully.
The velocity with which the thickset descend a chute is unprecedented. For that undesigned split-second of air your dingy catches, your life choices are temporarily, completely confirmed.
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CUTTING THE CHEESE
Many stereotypes are grounded in reality. Fat men fart louder and more frequently, which, in my eyes, serves as both a pro and con.
Breaking gale force wind can prove handy if you are walking past a couple passionately kissing by moonlight and you want to spitefully pierce their romantic moment with a thunderous batty-clap, purely for your own amusement.
Inversely, it is a slight irritation if you are concentrating on appearing interested whilst your sphincter endeavours to suppress the toxic repercussions of yesterday’s twilight fry up.
REDUCED LIFE EXPECTANCY
When you embark on a life of fatness you join a thickset line of iconic butterballs, who lived fat and died young. Those who who ate all the pies and in doing so paved the way for the men of girth of today.
Pavarotti, John Candy, the Notorious B.I.G. and others like them, they shaped the cultural ideals that still inspire today’s fattie. Drop a knob of marge to the deck for the fallen fat men whose passing shook the earth.
I know Biggie didn’t eat himself to death, but he would have, given half the chance. I often sit and visualise, in the days long before his whole crew were lounging, the sheer quantity of sardines Biggie used to eat for dinner. Mumma Wallace must have netted shoals herself.
The fat man must prepare himself for the increased possibility that one of his battered Mars bar arteries will implode, resulting in an untimely demise. Yamming endless burgers, isn’t quite viewed as the smooth, fatalist fuck you that smoking a cigarette is, but if I had my way, it would be.
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Nestling in a fat man’s memory foam gnork is comparable to resting on your mum’s jugs way back when they had the same nuzzle and guzzle potential as age old drinkable travel pillow, the bag o’ wine.
The fat man emits the comforting, unremitting warmth of a threateningly calorific, great, big hug in a mug.
The beneficiary is engulfed in a mounted, big spoon of cookie dough, which enforces a contentment that would satisfy even the notoriously persnickety bedtime requirements of Shania Twain on a long, cold, lonely night.
Have you ever met a miserable fat man? Of course not. Miserable fatties rot bed bound at home, balling salty, salty tears into their salty, salty snacks.
Dodgers of salad are an inherently bubbly breed, larger than life. Overlooking the intermittent stints of breathlessness, fatsos are the life and soul.
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What if you were to get the funny fat guy from every friendship circle and merged them into one colossal, lardaceous squadron of merriment?
No longer must we speculate.
If you have your cake and are eating it too, you have gorged your way under the protective bingo wing of a global, collective of swollen solidarity, Fatties Unite ™.
Fatties Unite ™ is a conglomerate of overweight men, bound together by their bulges in the indefatigable struggle for fat power.
Representatives of Fatties Unite ™ preach their cause, lavishly spreading the ideology of fat supremacy and fat separatism on a universal level.
A true chubaroo can’t enter a pub, or any occupied room for that matter, without streams of sweat cascading from his brow. The fat man spends summer days purging his stinging sockets with fruitless backhanded scoops.
Tactically combating perspiration becomes a part of life.
‘Pon the dancefloor, the fat man seeps. Before I had even discovered the mystical joys of the disco biscuit, I was dragged off my local cheese floor by a couple of burly doorman ,who were convinced that I was gurned out of my tree by my frantic rug-cutting and the unrivaled perspiration it yielded.
If you do manage to entice a chubby-chaser back to your crumb-dungeon, then the uncontrollable coital drip can be a slight off put. Far beyond the acceptable levels of passion moisture, it pools in your playmate’s belly button.
I once got called a ‘fat cunt’ mid-bone, which instigated a thankful moment’s perturbed pause to recuperate my breath.
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The favourable flip side to that chocolate coin is eternal toastiness. Come winter, those skinnymalinkas will be all of a shiver, while the rotund chortle into their cornettos and flaunt their prize-winning calves.
WEIGHTY FUNNY BONES
Are we chunkers funny because we are fat, or fat because we are funny? It’s a fried chicken or fried egg situation.
Either way it is undeniable that with a formless torso comes a comedic edge. Oily humour secretes from a gland indigenous to the plump.
If a fattyboombatty pops the shirt, and throws down, it’s kicking off, and will continue to do so, until an equally corpulent female equivalent round things off with a ditty.
I once met a felly fat man at a party who kept busting acrobatic physics-bending splits mid-sentence, and I’ve been trying to psychologically escape his sizeable shadow since.
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The triangular pudge that resembles a flabby fanny, leaving your dong protruding on a wee, meaty mound. It makes for a pretty fucking unsightly genital frame.
You’ve probably been too occupied marveling at their rippling midsection to glance lower to the glorious spectacle, masterfully carved into the rear of a porker’s lower legs.
As a result of the shear load they must bare, the fat man’s calves are a physiological miracle. They exhibit the freakish bulk of a wrestler with the unfair EPO sculpted tone of a Tour De France champion.
Each of these gastronome’s astronomical gastrocnominii are exhibited like buxom male cleavage. Their display also serves as ventilation for the gooch and his close quartered nemeses.`
I make that 8 pros to 6 cons. Viva la lardass.
When I started this post, I had planned a simple, triumphant wrap-up preaching the overwhelming benefits of fathood, but, in an effort to get my BMI suitable to score 3 grand from this clinical trial, in the last fortnight I’m ashamed to say my jaw line has emerged.
I’ve betrayed my culture, my identity and isolated myself from my legion of butyraceous brethins, and for what? A cheap buck.
I’ve fasted away my role within my social circle. My personality feels noticeably lighter. Now I’m minus my novelty bulk, my gimmicks, such as my renowned fat man greed are just not playing. No longer can I intercept crisps without consent, innocently attributing blame to my persona.
Now I worry it appears all those years of predatory swooping all-you-can-eat buffets and riding the gnarliest waves of the meat sweats, will be taken for exploitative, undercover journalism.
I fear I’ll be taken for a tourist, a scrupulous fackin’ journo, infiltrating the roly-poly lifestyle to gain unadulterated access to this unhealthy, unspoken for community, packing on pounds, purely to hammer out a derisive exposé, having shed the mass.
What could have been a humorous, heartfelt insight into the struggles of the fat, now just seems a cheap, snide stab at a section of society who I have nothing but love and adoration for.
Although, these words will seem hollow and meaningless from the gaunt, traitorous husk that has penned them, to all my fatties out there in the struggle, accumulate that cheddar; stack that dough; get that C.R.E.A.M.
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