Now, I could blame my stupid Y chromosome for giving me a heavier skeleton, or point the finger at bad genes, but fuck it, I’m just a chubby bitch. What can I say? I like to eat.
You know what? I’m tired of diet-crazed friends and skin-and-bones celebrities pressuring me to lose weight. It’s as though being a fatass has supplanted smoking as the favourite subject of self-righteous pricks. Oh, and I was a smoker too, so I got it double.
Take your BMI and stick it up your ass. It’s not the gospel. I’ll tell ya why: The BMI was developed between 1830 and 18fucking50. As we all know, medicine of the time was exceedingly accurate and not at all horseshit. Secondly, its creator Adolphe Quetelet was not a doctor, but rather a mathematician, statistician, and sociologist. To make matters worse he was Belgian.
As a transsexual, I am monitored very regularly, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with me under these rolls of flab. Stop bothering me. I’m happy with the way I am, and I thought I’d share some reasons why.
While munching down on nothing but platters of Big Macs washed down with a mug of bacon grease will certainly put you in an early grave, I think it’s safe to say most fat people are well aware of that.
But it’s just so damn tasty.
A complete disregard for your health is of course foolish, but being fat means you can eat that entire pizza and walk away satisfied and full, not guilty and vowing to purge when you get home.
All those things you crave, both the fine dining and the frozen entrées, you can have. A skinny person will fret and worry over whether or not that last chicken nugget will put them into cardiac arrest, but not us fat people. We eat that motherfucker.
I can’t imagine how the calorie counting crowd can actually enjoy food when they examine every morsel under a microscope. To me, a well prepared meal is one of the little joys in life and if it’s served on white bread with real butter and a glass of whole milk so be it.
Okay, so not all fat people are ugly. I happen to think I’m pretty cute. And there are chubby chasers out there. However, lardasses are not the standard for beauty put forth by the media, and indeed society as a whole.
Sometimes this means you get rejected or looked down on, but if you have the confidence and put yourself out there enough, you will find people who are interested in you. And chances are if they’re willing to be seen with a tub of shit like you and me, they probably like you for your personality. You. Not that superficial airbrushed bullshit.
One person who gives the middle finger to social norms and stays with a person he or she likes for who they are is a million times more valuable than fifty dudebros jacking off to Megan Fox.
That is all.
Fat people are 20% more likely to survive some kind of horrific disaster. Don’t believe me? Good, because I made that up. Maybe it’s true. I dunno. Go look at some statistics.
Here’s an example: You’re 350 pounds. You’re on an airplane over the Pacific, when all of a sudden it starts going down in flames because some barmy Scotsman forgot to push a button.
Now, everyone else runs for the parachutes, but you can’t get there in time because you’re too damn fat and they just don’t make those aisles wide enough. By the time you get to the emergency exit, the chutes are all gone. So what do you do? Strip.
If you are a fat person, your clothes are significantly bigger than everyone else’s, and are perfect for making an impromptu parachute. Laugh at the inexperienced skinny people breaking their legs on impact while your XXXXXL T-shirt glides you earthward as gently as a feather.
Better yet, forget Leonardo DiCaprio, fat people were the shit on the Titanic. See, even though there’s no chance of anyone allowing you on a lifeboat, that doesn’t matter because bitch, you are the lifeboat. So while Jack freezes to death because Rose can’t scootch over and share an enormous door, your layers of flabby insulation allow you to paddle around like it’s the middle of August. Not only that, but your greater buoyancy means you are a floatation device for everyone else. You’re a fucking hero.
Walking down the wrong alley at night can be a dangerous proposition, Sin City or not, but sometimes even fat people are forced to walk home. As you make your way past the prostitutes jerking off the deputy mayor and the hobos playing a game of Shit on the Stray Cat, a mugger leaps out of the shadows, demanding your wallet.
Skinny people would tremble in fear and hand over their valuables, or else wait for Batman to come to their rescue. But not you. No sir. You are a fatass. And fat people don’t give a fuck.
If he stabs you, it doesn’t matter. You have layer upon layer of padding. Being fat is like having a built-in bulletproof vest. It’s only a flesh wound, and while the criminal stares in awe at your invincibility, you can smack em in the face with your granny-wings.
Become a goalie – Nothing will get by you if you take up the whole net.
Date Matt – Just be aware he has this weird habit of slapping flab.
So there you have it folks. I know this was mostly silly, but let’s talk some srs bsns here for just a second. There is nothing wrong with being fat. Flabby does not mean unhealthy. To my fellow fatasses I say this: Don’t let the weight watchers keep you down. Watch your health, not your waistline, and if that happens to be 52 inches there’s no shame in it.