The Amazing Space

There is an amazing space in my pants where 200 extra lbs used to reside.

I'm always amazed to see grossly obese people eat in public. When I was 1,200 lbs, I ate alone in my hot tub/ deep fryer (hypothetically). It may seem like an easy target, fat people, but it isn't. I mean, physically, great target because it's hard to miss them, but comically- well, it's been done. I'm not being funny. I am serious. Watching fat people eat cake makes me want to run a flight of stairs and drink only water for the rest of my life.
I saw a girl, who was "Precious"-fat, trying to eat a muffin daintily. She was in a dress and clearly she was trying, but she was huge... like, "why even try?"-huge.
Am I evil for saying that? Sure, but I'm thin.
If I were in public eating a muffin with 200 extra lbs factoring into my decision making process, all bets are off- I would be mooing! I would acknowledge that I were already a spectacle and spare the irony of manners at a restaurant. I would oink all the way to my seat and fart non-stop. Farting is the olfactory equivalent of the optical assault that is: really fat people "enjoying" food. It's like a pedophile enjoying his grandson... he might play nice, because the parents are around, but he's pushing the swing with a throbbing erection tucked into his belt. You can just sense the dysfunction and it's beyond sad- it's hilarious (not the erection- the food thing)! It's so funny because that's why socialized health care is so hard to fathom: diabetes... probably the biggest medical expense in this country, but poor people somehow manage to put down carbs like baked goods were dogs at an animal shelter.

Oh- it was okay before I started with the dogs? I've always liked cats more, but I would eat a cat if it were a lean enough protein.

Which brings me to how I lost all that weight (did you think I would forget to tell you that made up story?). I grew up on a farm in Portland, OR. My mom kept sleeping with the barn animals, which led her to sign me over to the state of Oregon, where I became a ward of the court (then she could have more alone time with horses). Before she turned me loose on a revolving door of foster homes, she would starve me because we didn't have money for food and she needed her smokes. When she would get a check from her Tijuana circus shows, she would stock the kitchen full of processed magic. This happened twice a year and I would always eat until she caught me. She told me I would never be loved and chased me around calling me "Miss Piggy" until I agreed to pee on her face while she ate french toast. I felt conflicted about being told I couldn't be loved and being called swine- because pigs were her favorite lovers. I ended up eating my own feet one day when I was bored and found honey to dip them in. So that just added to calories I wouldn't burn exercising. It took two years, but I became super obese!

Eventually (8 weeks), I lost the weight with experimental drugs and crying. To this day, I can't see a crane without thinking: cement truck and I can't see one of those without thinking: cement. Life is strange. Big is Gross.

I Can Say Whatever Because National Geographic Says I Am From Africa

I got a call from my agent today (you know the one- Dr. Everything Be Alright) and she says that I'm huge in Russia! This news cannot come at a better time because I really need to move into an apartment. I have been sleeping on a forensic science nightmare for the last month and the only thing between me and sweet comfort is about $1,400. Surely Russia can help. I mean, look what we did for Haiti in this economy! (I hatey to make it a competition, but...) My back feels like Darfur + 911 + World Trade '93, not to mention (yet) that I can't find a thing to wear with all my stuff in boxes. Where's my telethon George Clooney?!

So in real life I am a stand-up comic, writer, take the trash outer, small talk with stranger specialist and I also work various other unpaid jobs. However, in Russia, I am a famous fashion designer of swim suits and sundresses! My picture is all over their Queen's panties! I guess it makes sense because I am part Czechoslovakian, which is still, today, a beautiful country inside of Russian territory. I think my Mom was like a cat and that I have several different fathers (I also think, as a kitten, she was left in the microwave too long). According to National Geographic I am originally from Africa, which explains my compulsive desire to yell out "MY NIGGA", but this has yet to yield any grant money from my Niggas over at the NAACP.

I recorded a bit, byte, clip for all of my fans in Russia. I did this before I was informed that my swim line isn't selling because it's 10 degrees. Also, on a production front, nothing has been made due to everyone thinking the designs are "ugly and tasteful". When my agent (position available) said I was "huge in Russia", she meant "fat and plain looking". So all I can really do is wait for NAACP to get back to me about my request for $1,400. They could also just be a co-signer for a $50,000 loan, enough to get me through the year. I think within a year I will have made it big, if not for stand-up, definitely for doing the dishes.