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.