Hannibal Lechter Wants to Eat My Readers

A few blogs back I asked any readers to e-mail us here at Fat-Chat and pose any questions to our “experts” or leave any comments that they didn’t feel were appropriate for the regular comment section. Since I love inappropriate things, unless it involves cramped elevators and people with uncontrollable flatulence, I am happy to print and respond to our first Fat-Chat reader e-mail.

(note: This e-mail has been edited for length and content. Original e-mail appears in exciting, fun-loving bold type, my responses are in plain, average, work-a-day text.)

Dear Fat-Chat Friends,

I love you, dear reader, for getting our name right and proving you know what blog you’re on in such a polite, literate way. Good folks like you make me smile. :)

What in the world is wrong with you people?

You are dead to me.

Therefore I shall summarize the rest of the e-mail. In essence Queen of the Universe shares a program I will call the “Liver Bemoan, She’s Divine” diet (if for no other reason than I like the way it sounds).

The diet consists of meal and lifestyle advice such as, “for dinner… two tall vodka/sodas with lime juice, fresh or concentrate (avoid scurvy!)… have a bottle of wine for dessert… glass of Scotch as a bedtime snack… enjoy the warm, alcohol induced slumber you so richly deserve.”

It includes a list of expectations like, “You get so drunk you don’t miss food,” and “When you wake in the morning you are so dehydrated you weigh in at LEAST five pounds less than you really are.”

The e-mail closes with a program testimonial: Believe me my friends, it works. It’s worked for me for YEARS. The only thing fat about me is my liver, and clearly that’s between you and me and the coroner. XOXOXOX Queen of the Universe

Wow.

I can’t believe what she wrote. I am shocked. Shocked! The amazement I am experiencing has left me unable to write coherently. What do you say to something like that? How can I express my disbelief, my incredulity? How dare Queen of the Universe suggest a “diet” plan so outrageous as to be…

AWESOME.

Now, other than the time a girl called me the “love doctor”, I am no physician, so I can’t comment on whether or not the “Liver Bemoan, She’s Divine” health plan has any sound medical theory. But in my opinion it has a great deal of merit. Queen of the Universe manages to stay thin, well-rested, popular and wise, all without sweating. Other than a warning about the dependency disease some, more judgemental, folks might call “college student”, my only advice would be try some moderation and variety.

Margaritas have fruit juice in them and would make a fine substitute for the wine (which, lest we forget, comes from grapes). Bourbon does not have any vitamins, but it also lacks carbohydrates, gives a warm, tingly feeling when it goes down and covers the odor of the mini pearl onions you ate with your Gibson cocktail. Worried that this “diet” lacks essential fatty acids or protein? A martini with three olives or a “Bloody Bull” (a Bloody Mary made with beef broth) would provide those missing ingredients and likely make grocery shopping more enjoyable.

Actually if you really think about “Liver Bemoan, She’s Divine”, just being on it would make most activities more fun. Add to that my own anecdotal evidence that girls on similar alcohol diets tend to be more willing to enjoy special “couples” aerobic therapy, and this has WINNER written all over it.

Just don’t drive, because no one wants to carry a big casket.

Thanks Queen, I’ll give it the old college try, and keep the e-mails coming!

Pigassus

Post Script: We all have ways to stay healthy and seriously good looking, but really, moderation is the key. I, for example, have just one family-sized bag of Peanut M&Ms a week, even though I want to have a bag a day. I also only have Papa John’s Thin Crust Six-Cheese pizza once or twice a week and almost never get Chinese take-out in the afternoons. It’s that kind of dedication that allowed me to lose another pound last week. I can’t wait to see what happens next week when I give Queenie’s plan a go.

Yes, We Listen

For all of you Peeping Thomases out there who question the interactive nature of the Internet, we here at Fat-Chat shall prove scientifically that we are, for lack of a better vocabulary, interactive. To that end, I would like to respond to a comment left by our most prolific commenter, Gucci Muse.

Her original comment, reproduced scientifically, is as follows:

Gucci Muse said...

ok, this is what I think, or what I know.

I have seen MANY MANY MANY MANY gorgeous men with FAT or OBESE women. Once I saw at a bar on the beach, a chunky assed woman, in a BIKINI, with her belly HANGING OVER the bottoms, sitting at a bar, with a STUD, tanned gorgeous boy standing at the bar trying to hit on her and was obviously mesmerized.

I often wondered what she had.

My friend's mother said: CONFIDENCE, and its true. It also works for FUGLY women b/c they have it as well.

So don't worry so much about the number on the scale, just keep doing what you do.


My scientific reply to her comment:

Pigassus said...

I understand what professional pick-up men call the "confidence game". In this game dice are shaved, imperceptibly at the corners, so that they will have a better chance of landing on the desired numbers, usually 7 or 11, also called "craps". And since I am so knowledgeable in this game, I can say without a doubt that it has nothing to do with chubby women in bikinis and the staggering beefcake trying to "score" with them.

No. Only one thing can explain the actions of the man in the above example and that complex psycho-chemical behavioral theory can be summed up in two words: Beer Goggles.

Or the dreaded "Margarita Mask" if you live near Texas.

You see, the muscle bound stud was intoxicated, and not by Orca's confident charm I assure you. Men and women both understand the social lubricator that is a mass consumption of strong libations. Was she displaying a great deal of confidence? Sure, but probably because she noticed he had recently vomited into the cabana trash can. As he squinted heavily upon his approach to her place at the buffet, she gained a great deal of courage and certainty that must have looked a lot like old-fashioned confidence.

In case you are not convinced, allow me to regale you with another provably learned example:

I was at the grocery store last week buying healthy, organically grown, farm-raised Cheetos and beer when I spotted what can best be described as a "slammin' hottie". Tall, dark haired with strong, slender legs and a huge set of gorgeous teeth, she turned into the chip isle where I was about to grab a low-fat bag of baked Doritos (for good health). Upon seeing her, I quickly and imperceptibly drew myself up to my full height and reached for the snacks with my muscular arm confidently. I couldn't have looked more self-assured lurching for those tasty treats.

But I could have been part of the coupon display.

And why did she not notice me? Because she wasn't drunk and I am poor.

In her sober, calculating state, she might have literally failed to see me. Like actually as she walked down the isle she only saw chips and peanuts and my cart and thought to herself, "What jerk left a cart unattended? And this isn't the tanning lotion isle. Where am I? "

Had I been thinking clearly, which I wasn't because of the attempt to suck in my six-pack of "abs", I would have pulled out some cash. But since I just had a few ones and a nickle, likely she would have only seen the money and I would have remained invisible and prompted a frightened, "OMG, who left their money floating in mid-air?"

So you see, confidence means nothing to dumb girls and now we have proof.

All we need now are some drinks.

Pigassus

Post Script: All kidding aside, Gucci is right about confidence. Maybe it doesn't get you a night of indescribable fun with "slammin' hotties", but if you are less than physically perfect, it sure can take you a long way... to the free clinic.

So I hear.

The Genetic Lottery

I am not resigned to being a fat person, but I will say this: getting slimmer would be a lot easier if my body would cooperate with me and with science. When you eat LESS and exercise MORE, you are SUPPOSED to lose weight. It's scientific.

Unfortunately, for many older, overweight women, that just isn't how it works. (Note to self: Journal entry #488. Must talk to the Big Mysogynist in the Sky about why he hates women so much...)

On The Biggest Loser, the male contestants sweat and groan and cry like babies and lose 10 pounds a week. The female contestants sweat and groan and cry like babies and lose 1 pound, or do not lose any weight, or...drum roll please! Like yours truly, actually gain weight.

How is this fair?

It's not fair, my child.

Okay, Big Mysogynist in the Sky (hereafter known as b-mits). No one was talking to...


um, err...heh-heh-heh!

I didn't really mean that, not at all, just the old proverbial "slip of the tongue," so you can hold off on the lightning bolt, b-mits. You really can, unless you arrange it to burn just the fat off my ass and thighs.

I am just SO FRUSTRATED today. Yes, I am down .8 pounds from yesterday to a more moderate 204.0, but there were days last week when I weighed 202.0 pounds, so how and why am I back here at 204?

I'll tell you why. It's the genetic lottery. Even though I am descended from aristocracy (no kidding) it was Polish aristocracy and there has to be a field hand or two stuck in there somewhere, a little slap and tickle in the green Polish verge whilst Mamá was at prayers. Otherwise, how do explain my delicate, aristocratic turn of feature, the high cheekbones, the noble forehead creased with selfless thoughts, stacked on top of the Pillars of Hercules? How do you correlate the baby-fine blond hair with hands any NFL quarterback would be proud to own?

How do you?

You don't.

There is this woman at work. I will call her Madame X. She is not only the single most exquisitely beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes upon, she is also the nicest, the kindest, the sweetest. I want to hate her, but in good conscious, I cannot. The men all swoon around her. A friend of mine says she looks like she's carved out of cream cheese, just that luscious. I do not feel such thoughts when I see her; I feel envy.

She recently had her second baby, and three minutes later, she was back in her size one jeans. She is the same height as I am, but weighs almost a hundred pounds less. She is NOT anorexic, she is NOT scrawny or skinny, she is willowy. And why? Because she won the genetic lottery. She was standing at the front of the line for the best teeth, best eyes, best skin, best hair, best body...heck, even her toes, which are frequently on display and painted to match her outfit...even her toes are cute. And lest you be making some stereotypical assumption that all that beauty must come at a price and she is perforce, dumb, you would be wrong. She is also smart. She was also in the front of the brains line.

I know. It hardly seems fair. Couldn't I have been near the front for at least one of the lines?

Oh wait! I forgot. I was at the front of the lines for "Fat Ass" and "Thunder Thighs." I also think I was first in the "Knows the meaning of the word, 'irony' and can use it in a complete sentence" line.

Thanks, b-mits, but next time, can I please have big ta-tas, a vapid stare and a minuscule brain? Then I wouldn't have to work for a living.

Anyway, my dear little Piggie, who seems quite fussy this morning, was also at the front of several lines...looks, brains, personality. But he was so used to the world falling at his feet, at it so often does for attractive people, that he simply can't get used to the loss of adulation now that he's packing some extra pounds.

Have no fear, Pigassus. It is on, and together we will scale Mount Mashed Potato and plant the flag of skinny victory upon its summit.

Or roll down the hill inhaling as much mashed potato as we can before we crash into lardiferous heaps at the bottom, whichever comes first.

Fat Cat

Oh, It's On and Brought and Such

I think I smell a challenge.

Not the usual kind of challenge like when I try to mix bacon and spinach with tomato and lemon in a cheese soup base with sliced, grilled chicken. No. This is the bitter, disappointing scent of gym socks, tears, and carrots... the weight loss program smell. Fat Cat has, perhaps without realizing it, asked me to duel her to the DEATH in a Winner Loses All Fat Eviscerating Contest.

Okay, that's a bit dramatic. Perhaps, "Loser Wins a Something Fitness Sparing Jamboree."

Which explains the demise of my marketing career and calls into question my sense of smell.

Anywho, what better way to inspire someone than with a good old fashioned trial against a peer-like person? Even though it is commonly recognized that I am perfection and needn't lose any weight, isn't it time I showed my commitment to this site and my friend by going ahead and getting perfecter anyways? Doesn't my appetizer of humility demand a entrée of altruism with just a side of buttery graciousness?

The answer is a tasty YES.

So although friends, relatives, strangers and other ne'er-do-wells all agree that I might actually degrade my looks with a drastic weight loss, I am willing to try for Fat Cat's sake.

Therefore, let the Jamboree begin! We'll work out the rules and prizes and all that gritty, technical mumbo gumbo later.

Pigassus

Post Script 1: In a later post I'll include instructions so that anyone with the "stones" to do so can join in our Jamboree to the DEATH Fat Loss Evisceration or whatever we'll call it by then.

Post Script 2: This morning I weighed 211.5 pounds dry and by the "sc-eye-entific" method it was nearly 90% muscle. Beat that Harvard scale! The oven mitts are off!

When To Seek Help

For many of the large-ish people out there, there comes a point when they ask themselves an important question: "One dozen glazed or two?" But of course they choose two, and then they ask themselves an even more critical follow-up question: "Holy crap, do I have a problem with my weight?" Since they are carrying a few pounds of sugar-coated, deep-fried pastries and it's breakfast, the short answer is "duh".

But the odd thing is many people never get to the "duh". Like a truffle pig searching the forest floor, the clueless doughnut addict from the above example keeps nosing around from shrub to shrub looking for tasty fungus to clamp their surprisingly articulate lips around.

No, back up, that's both insensitive and not really what I meant.

What I actually mean is that most people keep endlessly searching for signs that they have a problem with their health and the behaviors that cause their weight gain. Though they are given ample clues, they dismiss the obvious and keep waiting for the one conclusive piece of evidence that will indelibly stamp a mark on their forehead that says, "Overweight Person! Seek Help!"

In the meantime, they not only endanger their health, but also the welfare of anyone they collide with on the street.

So in an effort to give people in need a sure-fire sign that they absolutely, definitely, positively should start looking for help and support for their weight problem, we here at Fat-Chat have designed an incredibly unscientific and possibly offensive test.

Please retain your answers for the analysis at the end.

1. In previous posts a dessert was mentioned by the name of "Chocolate Eruption". When you read the name, did you snicker to yourself because it sounded vaguely like a bodily function, a body part, or (depending on your level of adventure) an act between two consenting adults? Or did you think about a Snickers bar?

2.

3. (For men) Does the part of your belly under the navel sag low enough to cover from sight or, Heaven forbid, actually cover any important parts that were referenced in question one?

4. (For women) Is it difficult for people to determine exactly where your knees, calves, and ankles begin or end?

5. Do you look at a restaurant menu like other people view "adult" magazines and consider the phrase "dinner is served" naughty talk?


Scoring:

1. If you answered, "Yes, eruption is a funny word, man!" then you are a a teenage boy and you have very little problem with your weight and everyone else reading this hates you and hopes you get really fat when you get older. If your mouth watered a little when you saw the word Snickers, mark one point.

2. A trick question. If you saw the blank spot and just wondered if I was incompetent or lazy, then you are mean and judgemental. If you saw the second line and made a bet with yourself that I had gone to have a snack and forgot to write something and now you are trying to figure out what's still edible in your refrigerator so you can get a snack, mark one point. Mark a second point if you did in fact pull out three-day old mac-and-cheese and go to town.

3. Mark a point if, in reference to the question, the phrase "little snake coming out of the cave" makes any sense. Actually, mark two points.

4. If you looked confused for a second but then while looking down at your lower leg, nodded, mark a point. Mark two points if you had trouble seeing your lower leg.

5. Yes, food is an aphrodisiac? Mark a point and remind me not to invite you to dinner.


Analysis:

Okay, the obvious thing is that I probably think more than I should about food and carnal "relations". But since I am not the one with a problem, I will instead just offer this advice:

If you marked ANY points, SEEK HELP.

Now, for a change, I am serious (though not in any professional way). Think about asking someone to help you if you are struggling with your health and weight. Just telling someone you intend to lose weight or get in shape will make it ten times more likely that you will try. Disappointing yourself is easy; being a let-down to someone else is hard. I don't mean that you need to go to a private dietitian or physical therapist (unless you think you should), but maybe try getting someone else involved with your weight loss. Join a group, tell your kids to remind you to go for a jog, find someone to have regular erotic aerobic adventures with... anything that will get an external force to help support and encourage you in your difficult endeavor. ANYBODY.

Even someone hott like me.

As long as you bring the doughnuts.

Pigassus