tales of a fat kid

some people have been on my ass to write a post. i'm not lazy, but i'm committed to only writing when a "feeling" comes to me...like gayness...or big-assed women or yelling at my girlfriend.

when you write a blog, advisors come out of the wood work, little waxy wood maggots with black mandibles chirping: "you should write about this. you should write about this." their subjects are always WEAK! it's like those idiot friends you have, who after farting in the car and laughing say, "they should make a TV show about us!"

i was talking to my buddy about periods, and now he wants me to write about that. the thin white chick in my office wants me to write about periods too. but you can't force mestruation banter, it must flow naturally from god or the golden uterus or whatever.

but then it hit me: i was a fat kid. there's nothing funnier than fat kids. but i can give my friends the inside scoop on lard-assiness. i was the best kind of fat kid too, because i wasn't always fat. so the thin-kid was always swimming around me, inside, shaming me, making me want to hide my belly folds with "big dog" shirts. all i can say is, hip-hop was made for fat kids. thank god for black people. fat kids owe everything to black people.

it worries me to write about it though. maybe it'll turn my girlfriend off. she might worry that i'll get fat on her. she'll leave me. i'll be alone with guacamole-flavored potatoe chips and diet coke. when she bounces, other chicks won't bang me because i'll still have that fat kid stink on me. have you ever met people who've lost massive amounts of weight? there's always a fat shadow following them. a little extra flab in the arm pit. the lower back thigh looks a little worn out like a bald tire. there's still a blubber pouch, a "blouch" on the abdomen. and we dress like normal folks, because hey we just lost 60 pounds, but we might still be 15 pounds over weight. it's so easy to get fat in the U.S.. there's been times that i've seen a skinny homeless dude and i was envious: if only i was homeless and couldn't eat. then again, i've seen fat homeless people too. what's up with that? what are they eating? fountain drink lids? but it's cheap to eat in America, dollar menu's at McD's, bagel thursdays at work, maple scones at starbucks...it's rough. (by the way, indians can get real fat real fast, we weren't made to pound white flour and carbonated syrup water, we should be eating bears and roots and crap like that)

ok, so now i'm going to tell all. i'm going to tell the truth about fatness and no one can talk smack to me because i was fat (i could still lose 15 pounds, hence the baggy pants...thank god i'm a man, women are soooooo much more forgiving than dudes and that's on the real my nilla's). because i was fat, i am guilt free. it's sort of like when black people can call each other nigga.

HOW I GOT FAT:

when i was in 4th grade my dad shipped me off to friends on the APACHE indian reservation in Globe, Arizona. what's that like you ask? it's like area 51 but with indians instead of aliens.

i stayed with these indians named, the "sneezeys." no lie. no they weren't dwarf indians, but i guess a long time ago the great-grandfather sneezed a lot. that's true. anyways, these apaches could make a mean tortilla. a huge flour tortilla the size of a man hole cover (no gay stuff please). if you know anything about fat people, we love flour tortillas. it's like a warm fluffy carb-blanket. and their so cheap. flour tortillas are fat "crack." i was all jittery in the corner slamming these things, trying different combinations to tweak the high, peanut butter, beans, i finally settled on butter. butter+homemade tortilla=stretch marks.

but these apaches also owned a salon. they were "hair" indians. so while i was devouring tortilla sheets i was also thinking about my hair. see, this bad bit of business was going down in like 1987. so like michael jackson hadn't been touching boys yet. it was the roaring pinnacle of "billy jean." i thought to myself, "after i finish eating another tortilla, i should get a michael jackson perm." that's what i called it. it's absolutely shameful now.

i had "chunk-blindness" too. this is a condition brought on by fat newness or extreme denial. this is when a fat person looks in the mirror and doesn't see what others see, usually these people wear camel-toe fashioning spandex, or half-shirts with slogans like, "talk to the hand." i was wearing '80's shorts with tube socks pulled all the way to my chubby knees. it looked like a melted ice cream stuffed into a cast. then you add the perm and blammo: disaster, like a train wreck in chernobyl. i didn't think anything of it either. i thought i looked good. somebody had lied to me and i believed it.

well, my chunk-blindess was shattered when i went home. this part is best told from my dad's point of view (by the way, my dad's huge too).

my dad goes to the airport to pick up his only begotten son. it's been a whole summer since he said goodbye to the cute little "it's-a-small-world" indian with high cheekbones and long straight hair.

(during the flight i thought about the best way to greet my dad. it had to be something special. a simple hug wouldn't do. i wanted to surprise him. 1) i definitely need this sequens glove. 2) i should drop down on one knee. 3) i should open my arms and shout, "papa!" like that dude in black face screaming "mammy!"

so my dad goes to the airport. and this fat, kinky-haired belly ghoul sprints out, plunges to the floor and screams PAPA! my dad looked at me and said, "who the hell are you?"

evenutally he recognized me through the curls and fat. it was his son.

that was the beginning recognition that i was fat. fat had declared war with a sneak attack. i had no idea what was in store for me. pizza, slim-fast, chicks, asian-envy, shirt-tugging, mirror-dodging, the next 20 years was awful. it was a vietnam, it was vietfat. battles. infantry. friendly fire. the war on my stomach was an endurance match, one that i'm still fighting. right now it's a lot like afganistan. the war is over, i pretty much won, but there's little pockets of resistance in hard to reach places.