Fat girls always smile at me; never the cute ones with the round tits and shelf-ass in the YSL and the Chanel and the black lace panties and ****.  No, I get the sperm whale in Diesel.  What am I, a piece of cake sweetheart?  *ucking beefcake, baby.  No, I would never say that.  I just ignore them or try and look like I’m pissed about something—the Iraq war maybe.  Christ, this one ain’t even that fat.  Am I too picky?  *uck no.  Look at her—disproportionate in unfortunate places.  Maybe she’s got a cute face.  She doesn’t.  Honestly, it doesn’t matter.  She writes weepy songs and probably blogs about how when she was fifteen she cried herself to sleep every night for a month.  Get the *uck over it, flab-neck.  America is fat.  Should you get a pass because the TV makes you feel defective?  Stop watching TV.  Guys, however... we can be fat as we want.  No media pressure here.  Nanny-nanny-poo-poo, girlies. 

Horrible skinny bitch.

Okay, I maybe sound just a little apathetic.  I’m not.  I really care about people.  I’m interested in people.  So if you’re fat and happy then *uck it, eat eat eat.  And if it’s glandular, you get to blame your parents.  But if your fat  ass is the source of your woeful unhappiness then join a gym or move to Tanzania and hunt water buffalo.  ****, I know “your inner beauty is all that matters...” blah blah blah.  Nobody really believes that ****.  We’re *ucking animals.  Beauty is nature, mother*uckers.  Plus I live in Los Angeles where we don’t give a **** about your inner beauty.  There’s not a whole lotta inner-beauty in Los Angeles.  We’re too busy with our false sense of self-importance, our surfeit mirror gazing, posturing and all and out fuckheadism.  Okay, leave the entertainment sector and you’ll find regular (i.e., fat) people like any other city (side note: the TV tells me the Midwest has the most fatties and the most stupid people).  I sometimes work with regular (i.e., fat) people (I never socialize with them, though).  They’re mostly nice, caring people. I like them.  They like me.  Sometimes I receive the “cake” stare from a chubby kitten down the row.  I ignore as usual.  Honestly, I’d rather *uck the bitchy brunette with the used car slung over her shoulder and the “for what those cost you could feed a poor Indian village for six years” shoes on her little twinkle toes.

Because I know now it doesn’t hurt to smile back. 

I think I want you to think that I care about the chubbies.  But I don’t know if I do.  I’d like to blame it on my serial misanthropy—I dislike a lot of people: incessant honkers, Red Sox fans, people named "Tadd," Canadians, etc.  But maybe it’s really that I hate myself.  *uck it.  Well, I’ll tell you this: I knew a girl who may or may not have cried herself to sleep when she was fifteen for a whole month and maybe longer.  Yeah, she was a fatty.  Maybe big-boned or Amazonian is a better description.  My buddy stole her car keys once at lunch.  I threw them in the Duck Pond, which was really just a massive puddle of slime and goose ****.  She thought I was nice.  She didn’t blame me for the keys.  But I wasn’t nice.  She had to walk three miles back to school.  Maybe I was nice, getting her some exercise.  Maybe I was nice when we used to stub cigarettes out on her back seat.  If she parked in front of the school we’d toilet paper her car.  She pretended not to care.  In the winter we’d make her take us up to Hunter Mountain. She’d sit in the lot and get baked.  We gave her a tab of acid once when she drove us to Great Adventure and she wandered around a Grand Union by herself, tripping face, while we *ucked off on water slides.  I think she wanted to come with us.  My friend disagreed, saying that she would’ve walked around in a T-shirt all day feeling self-conscious.  Maybe.  We didn’t ask.  One time she came into English class and she was all ****** up on ketamine.  She splayed out on the desk looking like a big pile of helplessness.  I felt really bad about the keys.  Then she lurched and threw up all over the *ucking floor.  People gagged and laughed; one girl got the nurse.  The teacher looked at her, cutting a derisive stare.  What a *uckface.  Anyway, a friend called me up a few years later.  Told me she hung herself in her basement.  “Wow,” I said.  That was it.



Copyright 2007 Chase Pletts
{moscomment}