The times I choose to write these blogs are less than ideal, considering I have to wake up early in the morning so I can go to class and “learn” things from “trained professors” who “care” about my “future.” Sorry, I just felt the need for quotations. You can’t see me, but I wrote that Bennett Brauer style, thrusting my hands up in the air every time I “wanted to quote something.” Don’t know who Bennett Brauer is? He’s a character played by Chris Farley in early ep — you know what, I won’t waste my time. You should just know who Bennett Brauer is.
Speaking of Chris Farley, I’m big. Not like take me out back and put an end to this suffering big, but still a hefty fella. This should come to no surprise to you — I mean, most of y’all see me everyday. I’ve never been a small guy and have dealt with this overweightness since I was a kid, but I like to take my disadvantages in life and make the best of them. Just ask the Dollar Store toys I got for many birthdays when I was a kid. (Oh, that’s right, you can’t because they broke the instant I opened them and are lying dead in the heating ducts of the trailer I lived in when I was in elementary school. Sigh. Digress, Charlie.) I get to thinking sometimes about my spare pounds and it occurs to me: it ain’t too bad. There are plenty of reasons why being fat is kind of a bonus. Put on your readin’ glasses, skinny people, and let me learn you a thing or two about the perks of being a gelatinous hunk of man love.
5. I Always Get the Last Slice of Pizza
We’ve all be in the dilemma: You’re at a party, get-together, book club, AA meeting, or what have you and there are two large pizzas there for all to enjoy. Questions start running through your mind like cockroaches scurrying through an above-bar apartment. How many slices are in a typical large pizza? How many slices do I get? How many people are here? Do I have a drinking problem? (Only applicable for those in the AA meeting or book club.) These questions, while quite valid, are not even the ones you should be considering. There are even bigger questions that should be brought to attention way before that. Is Charlie here? Where’s Charlie? Dear Christ, the big guy in the Batman shirt, is he around? No matter how many slices you think you’re getting, Lord knows people are going to be sifting through crowds of people to see if I want the final greasy piece of pepperoni heaven. It honestly doesn’t matter where we are or how I get it. If there’s pizza, I will get more than you.
It’s just a simple fact of life, folks. Whenever there is a great amount of food at a social gathering, some of it goes untouched. That untouched food — pizza being the grand daddy of them all — gets handed down to the biggest guy in the joint. “Hey you! No, not you. The guy in the back. Fuck you, Troy! Not you! The…the… the bigger dude. Yeah! Come on up here big guy; we’ve got another piece for ya!” Some will call it a coincidence, stating that I just so happen to be in the right place at the right time. No, that’s false. It’s just super simple to give away food to the fatty. We all know how hard it is to pawn leftovers off to anyone because they’re trying to watch their figure or are just too modest to accept a damn gift. Ch’yeah right, not this guy. Also, if the last slice is just sitting there waiting to be eaten by someone, I come into save the day in one of two ways. First, I could be the middleman in a democratic debate. If John and Francille — yeah, Francille — both want the piece of pizza and cannot find a way to split it evenly, I, being he with no stomach’s bottom, will simply devour the slice so that neither of them gets it and balance will be restored to the Force. Or I could just be a sly hog and, when no one is looking, grab the piece and inhale it before anyone notices. If they ask who ate it I will play it off like I’m some sort of morbidly obese angel…or just blame it all on Francille.
No, not that shotgun, Limp Bizkit…
I think this one is pretty self-explanatory: I always get the front seat. Whether it’s in a Geo Metro or a Toyota Tundra, shotgun is mine. Anyone smaller than me (read: pretty much everyone else) gets to sit in the backseat, enjoying half-rolled-down windows and crushed legs, while I make like Grand Moff Tarkin and command the shit out of that front seat. My dibs on the domain have become widely recognized by basically anyone I ride with. Now, THE ONLY TIME I give up the front seat is if someone significantly older than me is tagging along on one of my and/or my friends’ wondrous, often pointless adventures. (It’s a respect thing, dog.) While that rarely happens, I’m still reluctant to do so because hey, “war [the backseat] is no place for a Hobbit [heavy-set individual].” Look kid, I don’t make the rules, I just exploit them to their fullest potential.
3. I’m Your Excuse to Use the Elevator
Unless you’re Michael Phelps, Usain Bolt, one of the Williams sisters, or a cocky douchebag who likes to show off his mad fitness skills, you don’t like to use the stairs. No one in the history of stairs has ever thought, “Man, how awesome are these things? Climbing up seven floors has never been so effortless and rewarding!” Everybody loves a good elevator, though. Even before elevators were invented, lazy bastards have been trying to find ways to avoid those pesky steps.
The only problem with elevators is that you often have that one friend dead set against them, always pressuring you into leading a healthier lifestyle by opting for the stairs. First off, fuck that friend. Secondly, why didn’t you just ask me to bail you out? Ya see, I have the key to your happiness stored in my extra baggage. Whenever I’m around and Mr. Universe decides to motivate a group of people to use the stairs, I’m gonna be the guy to either 1) pretend to go to the bathroom or get a drink just so I can use the elevator, 2) complain about the “problems” I have with my knees, or 3) outwardly express my hatred toward stairs and anyone who chooses to use them, then take the elevator by my damn self. People have gotten so used to this practice that they are willing to stick with me until the stairs-elevator dilemma comes up. (YEAH! FRIENDS!) Arrogant McPrickface can climb the stairs by himself while normal people follow me to a land of efficiency and relaxation. I’ve got two tickets to paradise, people, so won’t you skip the steps and follow me tonight?
2. I’m the Designated Funny Guy
I’m not trying to brag or boast, but I’m a funny guy. Something within me keeps me on my comedic toes and I can rattle off wit like a madman. At least I think I can? See, maybe I’m not that funny. Maybe a big group of people needs the designated funny fat guy as much as they need the token black man or the ditzy blond girl or the dark-haired chick who flirts with all of your friends while you’re not looking even though she SPECIFICALLY said she was interested in you and thought you could spend the rest of your lives toge-… Ahem, yeah, you know what I mean. But still, in a very non-existent study that I never really conducted, 75% of the quote “funniest people in the room” were overweight. So that’s, uh…pretty fuckin’ sweet! Hey, if I’m the funniest guy in the room merely based on the number the scale wheezes out when I’m on top of it, then so be it. Being the biggest and funniest guy in the room has to be better than being the fittest lame-ass in the room, right?
Seriously though, I know I’d be a goofy bastard without the extra mass, but the leg up is pretty saucy. If Chris Farley or John Belushi or John Candy were hilarious when they were big, I have faith that they’d be just as great if they were skinny. “Charlie, all of those guys died prematurely…” HEY! Watch your tone and show some respect. That’s not the point. The point is, if I can stroll into a room and do a funny voice, break a table, or say something mildly amusing (while supplementing all of the above with my size) and get laughs, then I’m the big winner. Just by being, I have all sorts of crazy advantages. But one advantage rules them all…
1. I Have Superpowers
Yeah, it’s true. Didn’t I tell you? Shit, I’m surprised you didn’t notice after all these years. I am a certified superhero. I apologize for letting it pass under your radar this whole time. What’s that? You think I’m lying? OK, OK, maybe I’m not a superhero per se, but if you think about it I do have inexplicable powers. You’re shaking your head. Why? Oh, you think they can be explained. Well, I guess you’re correct. Like everything else on this page, it’s because I’m a biggun.
I could ramble on about my superpowers for pages, but I suppose if I present them in list form you may understand them better.
- I give off great amounts of heat. Even in the coldest of winters my man parts remain un-shriveled.
- If I were to ever get shot, the bullets would deflect off my body. Y’ever see those Billy Mays — R.I.P. B-Mays — commercials where he puts his hand under a shoe insole and hits it with a hammer, only to reveal it’s unharmed? Yeah, my body is basically one giant shock-absorbing insole. (Note: Don’t you ever point a gun at me and try this. Just assume I’ll survive and chase you down with extreme prejudice if you do.)
- I am able to break many things using no extra force other than those nature has provided me. These things include, but are not limited to, thin glass; plastic toys; trampolines; pool docks, lake docks, boat docks, basically any kind of dock; suspended walking bridges; deteriorating floorboards; etc. They typically break with so much ease that I even amaze myself.
- I can spit fire. This is one I actually had checked out by a physician; he called it “acid reflux.” The name itself is intimidating to even the manliest of men. I have to take these special pills to keep this “acid,” or fire-like substance, from protruding from my mouth. One day I will forget to take the pills and when that day comes, bad guys, you best watch yourselves. I will personally light your shit UP.
See? And you thought I was lying. Silly bitches.
Welp, I suppose that’s my cue to end things abruptly and take off. Gonna go work out a bit before bed. Trying to lose some of the weight.