Fat Men! I’ve Had it Up to My Fat Thighs With Us!
Fat Men! But Holy Shit, just who do we think we are, wedging our selves in at the buffet to drink gravy and break wind out of our fat rolls. Sad! Wretched! Satanic! We lay in our custom built tiled room, full of fridges and floor drains, and the Eastern Europeans we smuggled in pour GALLONS of high protein frothy poo frappe down the blobby, mottled pink Sand Worm holes we had carved by Mexican plastic surgeons. So we can eat more of that goddamn nougat we lust over. We are fat fucks. And I am sorry about that.
And being married to us is no fucking bit of leprechaun spunk, is it gals? No! Manning the bucking nougat ducts to launch more empty calories into us is thirsty work but we drank all the yogurt shakes already, leaving you with tap water. You’re the ones that rub the unguents into our chafed hips, scoop out the lint from between our folds with teaspoons and alternate between holding the bucket and mopping our the sweat off the fat pad that hangs over our eyes while we pass yet another a stone . And you clap like a nursery school teacher when the hard gristle ploinks on the bottom of the bucket and we grunt like beasts.
"More fucking NOUGAT. Please?"
Fat men are for shit. I’m sorry.
You know what I hate about we fat men the most? Our big fat thumbs. And our clammy ass cheeks, clammy from our ass vein being clotted up with more of fatty fat.
And all we do is leave greasy star-fish shaped stains all over everything while we paw for more goddamn nougat. The divan. The Marcello Spundeno leather sofa. Track the star-fishes and you’ll find us tits down in a hypoglycemic coma in a puddle of spittle, piss and nougat, kitchen door ripped off its hinges and the cupboards asunder like a bear raped them.
So, sorry. I hate we. I totally understand if you do to.
And being married to us is no fucking bit of leprechaun spunk, is it gals? No! Manning the bucking nougat ducts to launch more empty calories into us is thirsty work but we drank all the yogurt shakes already, leaving you with tap water. You’re the ones that rub the unguents into our chafed hips, scoop out the lint from between our folds with teaspoons and alternate between holding the bucket and mopping our the sweat off the fat pad that hangs over our eyes while we pass yet another a stone . And you clap like a nursery school teacher when the hard gristle ploinks on the bottom of the bucket and we grunt like beasts.
"More fucking NOUGAT. Please?"
Fat men are for shit. I’m sorry.
You know what I hate about we fat men the most? Our big fat thumbs. And our clammy ass cheeks, clammy from our ass vein being clotted up with more of fatty fat.
And all we do is leave greasy star-fish shaped stains all over everything while we paw for more goddamn nougat. The divan. The Marcello Spundeno leather sofa. Track the star-fishes and you’ll find us tits down in a hypoglycemic coma in a puddle of spittle, piss and nougat, kitchen door ripped off its hinges and the cupboards asunder like a bear raped them.
So, sorry. I hate we. I totally understand if you do to.
Labels: Greg's Life As Nincompoop, Trifles and Joshes, Weltschmerz
posted by Greg Mills at 8:59 PM
10 Comments:
Not fucking funny, Jackt. Not fucking funny at all.
A tragic story...except for the nougat. Nougat can be all right.
Nougat is the only thing some of us live for.
My former roommate, a morbidly obese fuck who was the incarnation of Ignatius Reilly once lost his car keys in his fat rolls. I wish I were joking when I said he also kept 8, four-litre jugs in his room filled with an unidentifiable yellow liquid. Yes...that was my suspicion too.
Don't you mean, phat?
G: That sucks. I hate we fat men for that reason. Did you smell the keys after? I briefly had a fat man roommate (who wasn't me) who left the aromatic equivilant of low tide every time he used the facilities. No good.
kris_one: No, because Nougat don't play no Phat. I don't even know what that fucking means.
The organic smell of feces doesn't freak me out--it was his lack of being able to hit the stationary target that is the toilet (and my luck to wade through puddles of the same contents as the 4 litre jugs stashed in his room, every time I needed to use the bathroom) due to his inability to see his penis, and his refusal to sit when he urinates that drove me up the fucking wall.
How fat was this guy? Was it a medical thing? I might, losing sight of your chap is being almost willfully fat.
The pee bottle thing is odd. In high school, I went with my friend Dave to this other guy's house. He was a friend of Dave that I didn't know.
He had JARS OF PISS dated under his bed. It smelled like a cat who had been fed asparagus pissing against a hot radiator.
This guy's claim to fame was he later won a pair of shoes in a Bat Dance contest.
I want to know more about this fat guy. How'd you end up living with him?
Funny things happen when you take the advice of a drug dealer. 'Nuff said.
Funny things happen when you take the advice of a drug dealer. 'Nuff said.
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