Just Another Fat Chick
Yep, just another fat chick who believes she can side-step, without crashing into the furniture, one hundred years of glossy magazines and Hollywood movies featuring visible hips that reflect ingrained male preference that can no sooner be eradicated from human DNA than the custom of guys having to act like they are listening to their wives if they are to ever again have sex; who must keep the safety to her Glock switched on whenever a girl -- blessed with the skinny gene that requires nothing more self-denying than consuming less than 2400 calories and two packs of cigarettes a day, and a fifty-foot walk from her Chevy Malibu to the entrance of her favorite saloon -- begins to preach to her about losing weight, much like a math genius telling a kid with Down’s Syndrome to JUST find the anti-derivative of a polynomial function that revolves around the y-axis; who use the euphemism BBW, or Bulging Blubbery Winnebago, in the hope that a guy will read the initials and, in an instant, go into a hypnotic trance that will not end until he is a husband dumping a second half-gallon of Rocky Road ice cream into a giant salad bowl to bring to his sedentary bride; who likes to list her multiple college degrees in Rhode Island Anthropology, Emotional Math and Neuroscience-But-Only-The-Dentrites as if what really interests a man is a lady who can hold forth on the Narragansett Indian’s way of crying while performing long division and how it can all be traced to one component of a nerve cell; who apologizes for admitting that her ideal partner must be tall and handsome, say, like Mel Gibson if he were stretched on a rack until he met the six-foot minimum and drank an elixir that made him thirty years younger and a member of B’nai B’rith, as physical attraction is the key to a good romance except when it pertains to this same man beholding the large woman listing these demands; who must apply all her formidable intelligence to make sense of short, ugly men ridiculing her girth who seem to not grasp the fundamental truism that getting laid by an adipose-enhanced gal is better than NEVER dipping their truncated dip-stick into Jennifer Aniston, who, let’s face it, prefers a guy who makes more than fourteen bucks an hour working the door-knob aisle at a Home Depot; and who longs to be the woman, like Valerie Bertinelli, who by virtue of shedding the weight of a male jockey is now entitled to give sermons to other people on how to run their lives.
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