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Fill ĎEr Up
Theyíre after me. I havenít much time to write but Iíd like to get my story down before Iím caught, strapped to a table, and forced to surrender my precious fat.
Ever since passage of the Liposuction Act of 2012, itís no longer safe to be a fat man in America. If youíre even 20 lbs overweight you must pay the fat tax. This is not a tax you pay with money, rather itís forcible liposuction. Our fat is sucked from our bodies then turned into a bio fuel and sold back to us at the pump. Our government has marketed this unjust law to the people as a virtuous act. As if trampling on the rights of fat people was the right thing to do. Talk about spin. I have to admit, it is a win win situation for the state, it solves two of their big problemsóobesity and our dependence on fossil fuels.
No one ever asked us fatties how we feel about it. Well Iíll tell you how I feel about it: itís a violation of my civil rights not to mention a damn inconvenience. If youíre fat in America these days, you can be marched against your will to a suction station and your weight reduced by ten percent. For a guy my size, thatís thirty pounds. Sure, maybe i look better to you skinnies, but who gives a damn what you think? For months after, nothing fits right. Lets face it, itís a pain in the butt, literally.
Well theyíre not getting any more of my fat. Not this time, not if I can help it. They caught me twice before. They got their pound of flesh and i donít intend for them to get anymore. The suction reduced my waist size by several inches and a lot of skinny people remarked that i was Ēlooking goodĒ. Their idea of looking good looks like anorexia to me. What they donít seem to realize is that i like the way i look. It takes me months to put the weight back on and feel myself again.
You want to look undernourished, thatís your choice. Me, I like the well upholstered look, big. round, meaty. Another thing no one talks about is that liposuction hurts, and that sound, it sounds like fifty teenagers sucking up the last of their milk shakes from the bottoms of their glasses.
Iíve heard all the arguments about lipo-fuels being the patriotic thing to do; about it being for the common good, in the nationís best interest and, as theyíre only too happy to point out, in my best interest too. Well, the national interest be damned. What about a manís right to look the way he wants to look? Itís my blubber and I intend to keep it. Iím not a national resource. Iím a thinking, feeling human being for Godís sake not some stinking oil well.
After the fat riots in 2013, things simmered down some. The National Fat Peopleís Alliance (NAFPA) succeeded in winning a few protections. The much heralded Fat Personís Bill of Rights guarantees that fat folks cannot be subjected to more than two lipos a year and that no more than ten percent of body weight can be extracted. Even with these restrictions, 25% of the nationís fuel comes from its fat citizens. Iím secretly proud of that fact despite my public statements to the contrary.
Our lipo-fuels program has become a model for other countries. I recently read that Brazilians have changed their national diet from rice and beans to Doritos and cookies. Itís estimated that America has the largest fat reserves on the planet and itís a renewable resource. Most of the world envies us. Those skinny Arabs are eating their hearts out. They simply donít have the long cultural tradition of unhealthy eating and sedentary living that we do, not to mention the poor snack infra-structure in much of the undeveloped world.
My girlfriend Shirley and I are on our way to seek asylum in Mexico. Weíll miss the easy availability of high fat, high salt snacks and thousand calorie bacon burgers, but we value our freedom more. There are plenty of fat Mexicans who are free to live their lives as they see fit and not forced to surrender their precious blubber to some misguided notion of public health and fuel economy.
Itís a long drive. Weíre taking back roads to avoid roadblock weigh-ins. Theyíre another humiliation we fatties are forced to endure. They make us get out of our cars and get on a scale. If your weight doesnít match their chart, you get a summons to report to a lipo center. If you donít show up, they come and get you. Itís worse than a speeding ticketóit not only slows you down, it ruins your appetite for the entire day.
The trouble with taking back roads, though, is the limited eating choices they offer. But we are managing. We picnic often and eat at small restaurants only. The bigger places, especially the all-you-can-eat places are always watched by the fat-baggers, thatís what we call the lipo-cops. You can always tell a fat-bagger, theyíre invariably thin with a wolfish look, like food was a personal affront rather than the pleasure it is.
My name, by the way, is Oliver Hardy, the same as the silent film star. Unfortunately, thatís where the resemblance ends as I weigh 308 pounds and stand fife feet five inches tall. Shirley is built the same. Weíre both fat but itís not our fault. I have a gland condition and Shirley was abused as a child. I love Shirley. I love her roundness, her acres of flesh and her unending plumpness. And Iím sure that she loves me. She calls me her Ďrolly pollyí and I call her Ďquiversí. All we want is to be left alone, preferably with a double cheeseburger and a large fries. It used to be that a man could be as fat as he wanted but those days, it seems, are gone for good. A manís fat is his castle and no government should be able to take it from him. Revolutions have been fought for less reason.
Shirley has been driving while I write. She has one hand on the wheel and the other deep in a bag of potato chips. She points a greasy hand at the road ahead and sprays the windshield with soggy crumbs. Her arms are the size of Virginia Hams, I can see flecks of salt on her lips. It makes me hungry just to look at her.
Shirley sees a Dairy Queen up ahead and wants to make a pit stop and maybe get a bite to eat. I think thatís a good idea and she pulls into the parking lot. I decide to wait in the car and write. The car along side of us is filled with skinny teenagers. I hear them hoot and jeer as Shirley makes her way toward the counter. ďHey, fatty, how about a fill up,Ē one of them yells. Rude and nasty skinnies. Donít they realize that their hurtful remarks only add to Shirley's insecurity? If they mock us in mexico, at least we wonít be able to understand them.
Shirley returns with a double cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake for each of us. It feels good to eat. Itís stressful being on the lam. I pull in to a filling station and get out to fill the tank with bio-fuel. I chew my burger and sip my shake while the gas pump ticks off the gallons. I wonder if Iíll like Mexico. I wonder if Shirley is going to finish her fries. I wonder what will happen at the border. It may cost me thirty pounds of lovely fat to be free. I snitch a couple of fries from Shirley's pack. She slaps my hand away and pulls out into traffic.
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