Little Buddha

Statue of Steven, a.k.a. fatty fat boy.

I wake up in the morning and I do twenty-five pushups. Then I wait for five minutes and knock out twenty-five more. I am determined to get back into shape and lose the love tummy and the handles with which I hold it up. In May I’ll performing with my band, Yay, quite possibly the best band in the fucking whole wide world. I pity you if you’re not there to see us light up the place. We’ll be making our debut appearance at art in harlem: star struck, 21 May 06 at the space. Be there or, well, miss it.

This is all Larry’s fault. Before him I was concerned about my appearance. I was quite comfortable being a high yellow hypocrite who explained his love of working out as a way to improve and maintain health. Early in the morning you could find me on a burning up a treadmill or swinging free weights. I had goals, ambitions, and muscles. At one point my body fat was only 4%. I was a 4%-er. But that was long ago when my pants fit and my t-shirts didn’t roll up in the back when sit down. Now I look down and I see a pot belly smiling back up at me, and it’s all my husband’s fault! It is!

It is. Don’t believe me? Why, of course you don’t because you know I am Steven G. Fullashit. See, Larry loves me just the way I am and told me so, even if he can’t get his arms completely around me. Larry is so not responsible for my love of cake and pie and laying about. We all know that I am.

“Do you realize how fat I am,” I asked Pookie. “I just found out.”
“You are not fat,” he chuckles.
“I went to H&M, tried on a pair of 30/32s and my fat ass laughed and said, Steven, now, come on. Go get yourself a 31/32.”
“You are the perfect size for a man of your age and height.”
“And, you know, Larry won't indulge my insanity. He likes me just the way I am. The yelly jelly belly boy I am,” I say.
“I can’t stand you. So fat is now a 31 waist?”
“Ok, I feel like I am being lured into a dangerous place...”

Like I said, I went to H&M to buy a pair of jeans, 30/32. That didn't happen. And apparently they were out of pig boy jeans, which are the only ones I can squeeze my fat ass into these days, so I left with my head in my hands and went straight over to Daffys, a store whose name says it all. Plenty of pig boy jeans in stock there.

Most of my life my measurements came in at a cool 29/32. And then came the 90s with an inch. Now at 40 I am spilling over in a 31/32. Pretty soon I’ll be as wide as I am tall.

Now, I know these revelations maybe insulting to people who are considerably more overweight than I’ll ever be. Still.

“Yes, yes it is! 31 is fat for me. I'm only being silly because you can't snatch me because you’re in Dallas.”
“Now that you’re fat I can snatch you. WELCOME TO THE DARK SIDE OF THE BON BON!!!”
“Hdsgfjebf9ewfkenf.”
“Typing in tongue won’t help.”
“Yes, yes it will. But first, more cake, please. Butter, buttery rice!
“Peas pass the porridge. Okay enough of your gravitationally challenged ass.”
“Okay. I am so a...I got nothing.”
“You got kadunkadunk!!!
“And I will shake it with pride!
“You will never be broke cuz you sitting on a million!”
“Okay, enough cake talk! By the way, do you have any cake?
“I have to go see Gem of the Ocean. But when I return I will make you a pair of "LOOSEY" jeans.”
“Yes!”
“Like juicy jeans but for the full figured writer. Say nothing else!”
“Go ahead and leave the yelly jelly belly boy, simmering in his own juices!”
“My friend so fat he bleed gravy.”
“Oh no!”
“That’s all I got. I’m really gone.”
“Okay, but I plan to put some of this in a blog entry. So be warned.”
“Nope.”
“Yeppers.”
“Change my name to protect my innocence.”
“Ok, you are now Pom Pom.”
“I’d rather be Richard Wrong.”
“Richard Wrong?”
“Dick Wrong?”
“And on that note: we'll be headlining at the Palace all week folks. GOODNIGHT!”

I would have completed this article but I had to get something to eat.