Thursday, October 26, 2006
Tough Love
Hey, Fatty. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Mister and/or Miss Typical American. Let me ask you a question: what the fuck happened to you? I remember what you used to look like not 20 years ago. Skin-tight leotard, headband, leg-warmers, sweating your tight little ass off as instructed by Jane Fonda.

Yeah, sure, OK, so her workout tapes turned out to be pro-communist mind-body-conditioning propaganda. Big deal. We were secretly and against our will subverting the very fabric of the United States by embracing yuppie-dom, widening the gulf between rich and poor, squeezing the middle class dry in between, setting the stage for a bloody and inevitable class war, buying Foreigner records... all sorts of unforgiveable atrocities. But holy shit, did you see our fucking abs? It's like they were carved out of marble. All kinds of acts of socio-political self-annihilation behavior can be forgiven if they happen over perfectly sculpted quads and glutes.

Have you seen Jane Fonda these days? She's still in pretty good shape. Sure, she looks like a movie-of-the-week about the evils of too much plastic surgery, but my God, at least she's trying.

But you... I mean... holy Christ, just look at you, Average American. You are by far the fattest person/people in the whole of recorded human history. How can we expect you to do the responsible thing--following the Fonda example--and spend thousands of dollars on corrective elective cosmetic surgery when you spend every single spare dime you have on donuts and McNuggets? Two great tastes that taste great together, sure, I get that, but come on.

I know, you want me to stop. I should just leave you in peace, dammit, because this is America and we are allowed to do whatever it is we want to do. If we want to make a billionaire out of Rudy of Rudy's Big & Tall fame, well, that's our fucking business, isn't it? We're supporting industry as we outgrow the things that used to be able to support us. Clothing, furniture, things like that.

Hey, you know what else used to be able to support us? Regular sized cars. And you know what else besides that, lard-ass? Go ahead and guess.

The whole planet earth.

That's right, tubby. I have to draw the line somewhere. OK, fine, maybe I went with you on a couple of late-night Taco Bell runs and yeah, OK, I was there that time we closed down Dairy Queens on four consecutive nights, but that was only because I thought it was funny to watch you eat, wide-load. I was making fun of you.

But this isn't funny any more. Fat Americans are causing cars to consume more fuel than ever. You hear that? Your one-ton car with the power of 200 horses is laboring to cart your flabby ass around. All those millions of years to convert fat, lazy dinosaurs into useful flammable, refineable liquid form and you go and squander all that work because you can't drive by a Krispy Kreme without reacting like Rush Limbaugh in a hospital meds locker. Or a Krispy Kreme.

Poor mileage means more fuel consumption and more pollutants in the air. Is your fat ass large enough to plug the hole in the ozone layer? Is it? I would bet it's probably a close run fucking thing, but probably just a little short, Weighty McHeavyset.

And if that weren't enough, it turns out that you, Average American, would feel a lot better if only you'd exercise every once in a while. And no, just watching Richard Simmons sweat to the oldies isn't going to cut it. Actually, I'm pretty sure you can catch something doing that.

I'm not prepared to keep watching health care costs in this country soar because you can't mix in a leg lift every once in a while, pudge.

We need you, doughboy. We need you alive, fit, lean, like a puma. Like a puma with the opposable thumbs and mental acuity to fire a bird gun. Because they are coming. The birds, I mean. A flock of menace raining shit and death all over this country, probably in the service of North Korea.

And where will you be? Idling in the drive-thru waiting for your super-size extra value meal to come up? Taxing your engine to the max as your means of transport lists comically to the side you're sitting on? Trying to fight off that tickle in your throat with the soothing scratchy feel of bite size Pepperidge Farms Nantucket chocolate chips cookies you swallow whole, four at a time?

No. Fuck that. It's time, Average American. No more coddling, no more co-dependence, no more driving the State Fair people to push the fried-food envelope.

Pops is in charge now. Let's get to it: on your back. Let's go, you disgusting tub of goo, we don't have all day! Do you have any idea how fast a determined flock of swallows can get here from Pyongyang? I said ON YOUR BACK. OK now, legs in the air. No not like that! Feet together you whore! We're doing crunches here. Your penchant for sexual immorality is a whole 'nother complex of issues that I will have to fix in another post.

You got big dreams? You want assured long-lasting survival of the species? Well, long-lasting survival of the species costs. And right here is where you start paying: in sweat.

This post on the Narcissus Scale: 0.5



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