Thursday, May 2, 2013


Who reads labels anyway? SIF don't be lyin on yourselves. When Little Debbie openly confesses to 4,000 calories and 988 grams of fat in a single cream filled serving and you still take that bitch home...doesn't exactly count as full on comprehension of said material. SIF are known for their ESL skills..."Eating as a Second Language." Take that Rosetta Stone. It's a gene thang. A plus sized gene thang. Just ask Mother. For years she made me believe Heavenly Hash was a spiritual gift from above. A quick answer to a prayer when God was too busy helping skinny people with their fucked up lives. Husband being an ass? Yes Lawd! Bam! Heavenly Hash! Bad day at work? Yes Lawd! Bam! Heavenly Hash! New Me Monday and it's only Friday? Yes Lawd! Bam! Heavenly Hash. I started wondering why I was I eating nasty ass unleavened bread every Sunday knowing this holy delight was readily available. Damn Catholics. Always keeping me down. Read the label. There's only one reason they call it Heavenly Hash....Death. You are certain to meet your person...long before your time should you inhale this shit on the regular. I'm not sure how Mother made it this long. Strike that. Snackwells. That's how. Whilst I give Mother credit for reading the label...she may have overlooked the serving size. Snack Well. Not often. Not the entire bag. That's all I have to say about that. I know this for sure...Jesus loves wine and bread. He answers my prayers for these two items quite frequently...sans labels. And they all said, "Amen." (insert southern accent to make this word at least 14 syllables...for effect). *Random sign of the cross.* Riddle me this. Go to your closet and pull out a pair of jeans. No not the size 2's you've had since 1985 with the tags still on them. Please give them to the Skinnegars. I fear they are still douching their fat away. Read the label. Ok go find a pair you haven't cut the label out of. Do you really think that trick works? Seams sisters....seams. Fat people jeans have double stitching! Do I have to hip you to every "fatual" detail?! Seriously?! What do you think is holding in all that ass? Certainly not gravity! You are fooling exactly no one. Better get a seam ripper and take out a row or 2 of reinforcements if you hope to pull that one off. Did you find them yet? Damn bitches be takin up all my time with their tricks n shit! My point? I wanted to get your fat ass off the couch, make you walk UP the stairs and open a couple of drawers. I'll call it cross training for effect. It won't put a dent in the caloric calamity of your daily intake...but it pleases me greatly to drive home my next point with a little cardio. My point (random drum roll) had to work to find the label. No telling what ingredients make up all that is you. I fear it would be too frightening for the general public. It's all smashed in, sucked up, tucked away and presented at least 10 sizes less than it really is. Thank God for double seams! Much like the wine and the bread, he knew better than to put a label on a SIF. He knew we would lie anyway. It's not nice to lie...but I believe it to be ok to conceal. Leave a little to the imagination. Ok a lot. Before you start feeling bad about lying, concealing and seam ripping, let's say a prayer for a group that hasn't been afforded the same luxuries as the SIF. The Brothers in Fat. The BIF's. No these are not large black men. They are men with an inner fatty. This knows no color...or label as it were. So by now you know I'm divorced and dating. Maybe you don't know that. Now you do. While I had random thoughts of switching teams due to the sheer lack of sex I received in the 8 years I was married...I stayed the course. Dick it is. As usual the thought of dick makes me lose my train of thought. Sorry Mother. I guess you know I'm no longer a virgin. I'm still fat and eating Heavenly Hash. That has to count for something. You always said I was your favorite daughter. I have one brother. Not a compliment. Where was I? Dating. Oh that. So my very sexy boyfriend (I'm quite sure he's reading this so the compliments will be free flowing from here on out) came walking into the kitchen one night dressed in his new jeans. I couldn't take my eyes off his ass. Yes, bcs it's nice and yes bcs I think of sex immediately when I see him. I'm sure there's a pill for this but my liver is currently at max capacity with wine and diet pills. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. There it was. A label. Length, waist size...all the particulars I would never want anyone to know about me. Yet, it was prominently displayed for the entire world to see. My hand subconsciously reached for a Sharpie. It's a SIF thing. A 911 between fatties. Before I turned 8's into 0's I grabbed his ass...attention. I think he said, "I never thought about it like that." Why? Why do men take up permanent residence in the dark? No good can come of this. They always have that blank stare when a woman enlightens them about something so painfully obvious. You are running around town with your "fadigits" (fat digits) hanging out and you never thought this could be an issue? Ever wonder why you only get Healthy Choice coupons from the grocery store checkout lady? She's lookin at your ass. Ever wonder why no one offers you dessert when you go out to eat? They've seen your ass. Levis are not your friend fellas! Time to invest in a good seam ripper and a SIF! We know the rules. Ugh...this blog is exhausting. It's like exorcising demon after demon only to find out they had babies. Twins. Triplets. What will I discover next? I know what the garbage man will discover on Friday morning. The remnants of Wednesday night’s binge. Fried chicken and ice cream. No I'm not pregnant. I have a worm. A very large worm that has taken up residence somewhere inside all that is me. He (yes I know him to be male) makes me buy fried chicken when I go to the store for Snackwells. I even bought hot fudge. Blew that up in the microwave. Hated to have to lick the jar. Didn't want it to drip all over the floor n all. For the record I did not read the labels on the fried chicken, the ice cream, the hot fudge or the macaroni and cheese (almost forgot about that). What's the point? They all = death. So I'll go out with greasy lips and hot fudge stains. Way better than wearing a label on my ass. I'm just sayin.

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