A bunch of fatties got together recently and didn’t watch TV, didn’t throw back any pints, and didn’t injure their ACL’s in mantastic feats of weekend warriorism. What they did do was watch boring TV (most likely), talk about how much having “curves” defines them more than their shitty collection of porcelain cats (most definitely), and sweat gravy.
Yes that’s right, this bunch of porkers were women. Guess what they also did.
They invented the scholastic discipline of Fat Studies. What in the fuck?
What the fuck is the difference between Fat Studies and Women’s Studies? Don’t tell me it’s a study so nice they named it twice, like they seem to have done with eating and dessert. Also, don’t give me any bullshit about obesity being a universal problem. Men don’t have a problem with being fat.
That’s why we men invented money. So we’d still look attractive as shit with a hundred extra man pounds swinging around our skeletons. After all, sometimes a man needs to be fat. We all know it. Gravity herself isn’t enough to hold a man of proper brilliance against the face of this earth. Without a heaping helping of man love handles for her to grab hold of, a man of lesser stature and weight would go flinging off into space next time the world took a sharp corner. Gravity is a woman and I don’t care how much of that metaphor works.
Louie Anderson gets laid and he’s fat and ugly. What the fuck does Fat Studies have to say about that? Probably something stupid. Here’s how I know. Let me present the cast of players in the emerging field of Fatnomics:
Don’t Sheana Director’s name fool you; they’re all woman.
Are you fucking kidding me with this? You might be, but The New York Times, who have taken notice of this lethargic and jelly-filled movement, are not.
There is no difference between Women’s Studies and Fat Studies. That’s why I said it in the first place. I’m a man and my words are worth valuable moments of my man time. I don’t waste either. Being enormously fat is just women’s nesting instinct run horribly amok on an unsuspecting buffet. Those big, beautiful women going to town on Cheesecake like they’re tornados and raspberry starch is the farm from the Wizard of Oz — hording gobs of jelly like chipmunks stuffing nuts into their cheeks? That’s called being a woman. Just ask them. Real women have curves. Don’t tell me you didn’t see that horseshit movie.
Well I didn’t because I’m a man and I see movies like Lord of War and all the Fast And Furious ones back to back. Fuck, I’m thinking of seeing a movie right now and if I do, I’ll tell you what it won’t be about. It won’t be called Impotent Herman Works Out His Issues, because I’m a man and if I’m going to be spending my man time in some make-believe world where people have snappy come-backs all the time and no one got Herpes from anyone, it’s going to fucking inspire me. I’m a man and that’s what men look for in everything. Inspiration.
I’ll conclude with a question for — no I take that back. I present this as my doctoral thesis in the study of Fatology and Fatness:
What is the difference between a rapist and a hugely fat woman?
There isn’t one.
Make sure you print that degree on some expensive fucking paper.
Edit by Dick: Thanks to wolfe who brought this disaster to my attention in the Man Forums.