Before we dive into the blog, I’ll update you on my wight loss/get in shape goal. When I weighed in on Friday, I was 341.9 lbs., which brought me down a total of 11.7 for the month. It’s not exactly the most drastic drop, but after speaking with my trainer, he’s reminded me that I laid a lot of lean muscle on this month and that weighs more than fat. Here’s a pic of my measurements, which came down too.
|My biceps are evening out. Draw your own conclusions.|
Now on to the good stuff.
About a week ago, I had to go take the Oklahoma General Education Test, or OGET for short. I guess when you want to become a teacher, they like to make sure you at least have some general educatin’ in your background.
I am absolutely forbidden to discuss the questions that were on the test, and I signed a pretty strict nondisclosure agreement on the front page of the test that said the state of Oklahoma would take my firstborn and give me a fantastic wedgie if I told anyone about the questions.
However, the NDA said nothing about discussing what took place in the time I spent before I took the test. And believe me, things happened.
Let’s start with how early the test is. I had to report to the testing site at 7:15 in the a.m. 7:15. 7:15.
My kids don’t even have to be at school until 8:30 and that’s not even on the weekend.
Of course the night before, I woke up at 3 in the morning and couldn’t go back to sleep for an hour, so when my alarm went off at 6, I was dragging more butt than a dog on a freshly washed carpet.
In my desire to reach the testing site on time, I forgot to bring “several #2 pencils, sharpened.” I wasn’t gravely concerned because I figured I could pick some up on the way.
I stopped at two places on the way in, neither of them had pencils.
I arrived at the testing site sans pencils, late, and sat down at a table with 5 other very tired people, all of whom had freshly sharpened pencils, industriously laid out, ready to be used.
|Essentially what the table looked like.
I looked at the three young ladies on the opposite side of me and said, “Do any of you have a spare pencil I can buy?”
I crap you not, all three of them looked at me, pursed their lips, shook their heads primly and did their best Elaine Benes “I can’t spare a square” impersonations.
“I’m sorry, no.” “I just don’t have any extra.” “You really should have brought pencils.”
The two gentlemen on my side of the table witnessed this transaction, laughed openly, and then one of them said, “Here you go man.” The other one said “And here’s an extra, just in case.”
When I reached for my wallet to pay the blessed men, they both politely refused.
Chivalry, it would seem, is not dead in the male species.
*side eye at the women*
Pencils in hand, I walked down the hall to the testing room. I realized I had been worried about something in the back of mind, almost unconsciously, all morning long.
When I walked in the room, I saw what it was.
|Never has such an innocent memory of childhood wrought such terror as in the heart of fat adult.|
As a portly person, I live in constant fear of standardized desking. I walk into classrooms and immediately look for the “fat kid desk” or even a table and chair. When I have a new class at the beginning of the semester, I have to get there ten minutes early the first day, just so I can lay claim to the most comfortable seating arrangements, anyone else be danged.
Sure enough, the testing room I was in contained a desk.
A small desk.
My thought process went something like this.
“Dude. You can’t fit in there. No way.” “I totally can. I’ve been working out.” “For a month you fat sack of flan, no way you’re getting in it.” “Watch me.” “What?” “WATCH ME!”
I may have screamed that last part out loud, which got me a few strange looks, but I got to the desk. What happened next can only be described with a gif.
|This is actually scary accurate, including the sort of bracing hand grab and wedge technique.
It was rough, and it even hurt a little bit, but I made it. I felt like a beach ball being squeezed between two pieces of flat wood, but I was in there.
There was but one tiny problem.
I couldn’t breathe.
Well, not normally.
I was taking these sort of breaths that were causing other people to look at me with various stages of concern, all of them I’m sure convinced I was having an infarction.
So when the teacher came around and asked for my driver’s license, the following conversation took place.
Teacher: “Sir, I need to see your license.” Me: “The other lady already looked at it.” Teacher: “Well, you have to keep it on the desk, in case you go to the bathroom and try to come back as someone else.” Me: “Oh, you mean someone who can fit in desks better?” Teacher: “Oh! Are you uncomfortable?” Me: “Yes, ma’am. I am very uncomfortable.” Teacher: “Would you like alt…”Me: “YES I WOULD LIKE ALTERNATE SEATING ARRANGEMENTS.”
So the teacher yelled into the hallway.
“EXCUSE ME MR. GUY! YES, CAN WE GET THIS GENTLEMAN SOME ALTERNATE SEATING? HE’S TOO…UMMM…UNCOMFORTABLE.”
For the love of God. She was going to say fat. I know she was going to say fat, and she was about three letters away from giving me an automatic passing grade on the OGET, because I can promise you this, if you call Travis Sloat fat at a party we’ll laugh, but if you do it when I’ve been woken up at 6 a.m. on the weekend to take a test that measures nothing but my common sense, well then sister, you’re sued.
So Mr. Guy went traipsing through the school, looking for seating arrangements large enough to accommodate my industrious bulk.
He brought back a desk that looked as it belonged in a kindergarten classroom or under a meal in Japan. It sat about 3 1/4 inches off the floor. With it, he brought a full size chair.
I spent the entire test bent over, finishing in just under two hours, and leaving looking alarmingly like this:
|That’s the face I make when I get up at 6 a.m. on the weekend.|
I’m still waiting on the scores. If I don’t pass, do you reckon I have a legitimate case for a redo? Maybe next time they’ll let me bring in my own seating arrangements, an easy chair and one of those hospital desk things they put people’s food on. I think that’s the ticket.
In the meantime, I’ve designed a new logo for OGET.
|Accurate and efficient.|
(Hey y’all. This little thing is called Memoir Monday, and I’d be thrilled if you gave it a shot. Just jot down a story about yourself, grab my code down there, and I’ll link you up to be read by all my wonderful blog buddies. The only rule? It has to be true. I am personally doing what I can to help cure your case of the Mondays. Thanks for playing along!)
For those of you who aren’t graced enough to be following my 140 character assaults on basketball teams I don’t like, lentil tacos, and basketball teams I don’t like that I call my Twitter page, I will update you on some things now.
Last week sometime I decided to go try out for The Biggest Loser. They were holding auditions in Oklahoma City on Saturday, and I thought, “Eh, what the hell. I’m pretty fat, and I have previous TV experience.” So I decided to make the 2+ hour drive over and see what I could do.
Then, on Friday night, THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING, the Blizzard of 10 hit Oklahoma. For those of you who aren’t familiar, a blizzard in Oklahoma is anything from light sleet, all the way up to 1 inch of snow. Anymore than that, and we start making plans for Jesus coming back.
Either way, it hit. I had my alarm set for 4:15 AM, and when it went off, I damn near threw the clock against the wall. I hit the snooze, set the alarm for 6:15, and went back to sleep. (The original plan was to be at the casting call by 7 AM so that I could be first in line when they opened the doors at 10.)
What wound up happening was that I set my clock to 6:15, not the alarm. So when I woke up at 10:15 AM (8:15) I was pretty wound up. I soon figured out the correct time, and we picked up Kid Funk and made our way to the city.
The trip up was pretty uneventful, although Kid Funk and The Missus will both tell you I was in a bad mood until I had breakfast. (Blood sugar much?)
When we rolled into the Coca Cola event center, The line didn’t seem very long. I got there about noon, and the casting call was supposed to shut down around 6. We hopped in line, and I filled out my application.
The next 6 hours of my life were filled with 3 things.
1. Making fun of fat people while they listened.2. Watching fat people make the McDonalds next door very profitable.3. Watching college hoops on the big screens.
I’ve taken some pictures, and I’m sorry for the amount, but they are all really pretty funny. The long and short of it was, I waited for 6 hours, finally made it back to the room, got sat down at a table with ten other fatties, they interviewed us in a group, and they told us they would do call backs that night.
I never got a call back. Truth be told, I don’t think I was fat enough, if you can believe that. There were some HUGE people there, folks. And really, all I could think about when I left was, NOT ONE SINGLE FART WAFTED UP MY NOSTRILS. The entire time, thousands of fat people, and not one time did I sniff a fart. I was amazed. We’re a classy demographic.
On the way home, my car hit an icy spot on a bridge, and tried to go into a spin. Kid Funk shit himself, and The Missus almost threw up, but for sure, I pulled out of it like a champ. That was the end of trying to drive the speed limit, and we made great time on the way home, with a 2+ hour drive taking almost 4 hours.
Would I do it again?
You’re damn right I would.
So here are the pictures, along with some captions to make your Monday more enjoyable.
Fact: Fat people WILL tear up the place trying to get AC.
This fucking idiot DRUG a chair around the ENTIRE FIVE HOURS!
Again. I don’t think she knew they actually make you exercise on the show…
This is Deputy Dan. Deputy Dan almost tazed me, and then yelled at us to “STOP MOVING CHAIRS AROUND OR I WILL RUIN YOUR CHANCES TO BE ON THE SHOW!”
More McDonalds… AND CAMO! Does anyone see a pattern here? (You gotta give me that pun.)
You’ll notice I kept getting photo bombed by a guy in a yellow shirt. Turns out, he was a hell of a nice guy, and I’m not just saying that because he asked for my blog address. Big guy, if you’re reading this, I hope you and your lady got on.
Making out with each other in line though?
Save that shit for the reinforced bed in the hotel.
Other Non-Fatty Filled Lines To Memory Lane: GO READ THEM!
Daffy’s Memoir Monday: Damn Yankee
Corrie’s Memoir Monday.
Josh’s Memoir Monday: My Kind Of Music.
Micki’s Memoir Monday: This One Time, In An Airport Bathroom… ***ROOKIE***
(Hey guys and gals. It’s Memoir Monday time! This is where you write down a story about yourself, steal my button down there, drink a beer, and call it all a win. The only rule is that it has to be true, other than that, there are no rules. I need you to join this week! Once you post, let me know, and I will link you up down there for all my kick ass bloggy followers to go and read! Y’all are the greatest, and I love you. If you want to see all the Memoir Monday posts, just click on the brand new button!!)
I really don’t like American Airlines.
This hasn’t always been the case, and truth be told, wasn’t even the case when I took off from Tulsa. Although it sort of blossomed there. Let’s go back to the beginning…
It was Tuesday morning. Our flight was a 9:45 in the morning and I didn’t want to be late. We left our house at 8 to make the hour drive to the airport. When we got there we were met by a sweet little old lady that was around 237 years old. I don’t remember her name, but she had a voice that you’d want in your head all the time.
“Let’s just go right over here, guys. Okay, we’re just gonna slide this card right in here…okay, now see? It’s not charging you anything at all, no it’s not. It’s just checkin to see who you are. That’s right. See? Yeah, just finding out who you are. Is this you, Alicia? Well isn’t that just a pretty name? And are you Travis? Yes you are. So we’re just going to push a few more buttons…and there you go! Look at you! All booked up! How easy was that? Yes it was.”
I’m pretty sure she scratched my head and kissed me on the cheek. I loved that lady.
However, that was the last nice person we met.
Enter airport security.
Yeah. I haven’t flown since the 9/11. I’ve heard all the jokes about security, but I just thought maybe they were exaggerations. I was wrong.
We just tried to do what everyone else did, but for me, that wasn’t good enough. I left my cell phone strapped to my belt and my money clip in my pocket.
“Do you have any metal on your person?”
“Is that a cell phone?”
(shakes head) “Sir, you ought to know you can can’t carry that through a metal detector. And a money clip? Sir.”
“Can we please take it easy on the people who haven’t flown before?”
At this point, a line started to form behind me, and I’m pretty sure I saw the glint of a sniper scope in a birds nest ready to take my head off, so I quit my bitching, stripped balls naked and did the helicopter with my cash and prizes through the detector.
Okay, not really.
We were seated together for our 2 flights to New York. I gave her both the window seats on the way, so that I could get them on the way back, not knowing what would happen…
The seats on airplanes are really small. I will use a quote from Family Guy about “Anal Point” as a reference. “It’s like a really small parking space. At first you think there is no way you’ll get in, but then you tuck in the side mirrors, and whadda ya know, you’re in there.”
I got the buckle on in my first 2 flights with some trouble, but not much.
We landed in New York, and the trip happened, which is another blog for another day. Then we got snowed in a day. So our flight (and EVERYONE ELSE’S EVER) were switched to Thursday out of Newark, NJ airport.
That flight was headed to a layover in Chicago, and I got a window seat.
Since there were so many people, we wound up getting this response to what turned out wasn’t actually a ticket in our hand.
“Folks, you’re promised a spot on the plane, but only if there aren’t enough people on it already and only if that guy over there by the window comes up to me and tells me that a pink cow has just wandered across the tarmac carrying a suitcase full of oranges and wanting a connecting flight to Montana.”
It wasn’t that bad. But it was pretty close. I’ll spare you the details of the wait, but I had a long talk with Ginger Mandy while I was there. If you don’t read her blog, you should. (shameless blog plug, FTW!)
I also tried to purchase a t-shirt to wear home because I was wearing a hoodie with a sleeveless shirt under it. At the place of business I was in, I said, “Do y’all have anything bigger than an XL?” The attendant said, “No.” And I said, “Do y’all not get many fat people through Jersey?” The room went completely quiet. So yeah. I guess being husky isn’t allowed in the Newark airport. And while it may be tolerated, jokes about it certainly aren’t.
Since EVERYONE AND THEIR FUCKING MOTHER is utilizing carry-on space now, and since we were in GROUP FUCKING SIX and pretty much the last people on the plane, it so happened that they ran out of carry on space, and we had to check our bag. I was furious, but what can you do?
We got on seats near the front of the coach section, close enough to smell what first class was getting to eat, which pissed me off. I also couldn’t get my seatbelt buckled on this plane. Which adds credit to my theory that they don’t like fatties in Jersey. I tried for 20 minutes to get the flight attendant’s attention, but she was up front suckin off the first class people. I finally got the extender, (heh) and I calmed down a bit.
Then we just sat there.
And we sat there.
And we were just sitting there and I was starting to get the swamp thighs because I have husky thighs and they don’t like to be stuck together for that long because they start to sweat and make my balls feel like they’re in a humidifier and that’s no good for anyone.
Then the captain comes on.
“Folks, this is your captain and I just want to say that we are currently waiting on the catering for this flight. It was supposed to be catered in Chicago, but it has to be done here. I know that currently one of our fat coach passengers is suffering a case of sweaty balls, and I’d just like you to all join me in making fun of him for being fat and asking for the seatbelt extender.”
Not really, but he did say the part about the catering. We were waiting on the damn FOOD. My thing is, if I’m the fattest person on the plane, and I can go 2 hours without cramming food down my gullet, then you can too. That’s real.
Finally we took off, and get to Chicago without incident. We go through a similar ticket experience. We find out that we aren’t sitting together, which upsets me, but then The Missus pulls off the best bullshit she has EVER done.
“What seat do you want?”
“Well, I want the window seat. You owe me.”
“Okay.” (pretends to do some calculating) “They’re both window seats.”
“That’s fine, just pick one and I’ll take the other.”
“Okay, I want this one because it will board quicker.”
She boards the plane.
Then I board the plane.
As I am walking to my seat, I look up at the chart, and I find out that my seat is NOT a window seat.
That’s okay, because it’s an aisle seat.
I AM IN THE MIDDLE FUCKING SEAT.
So of course I start wondering what the people in the seats beside me will think about a 350 pound guy sitting next to them. As it turns out, that should have been the least of my worries. You see, the man to my left weighed about 350 pounds, and the man to my right probably tipped the scale at about the 300 mark.
Did you read that?
That’s 1000 pounds of man in one row.
Have you ever driven a car that’s really needing alignment, and you almost have to keep the wheel turned the whole time you’re driving so that it keeps the car going straight?
Yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s what the captain had to do to balance us out THE ENTIRE FLIGHT.
I plopped down between those two fatties, and we formed a super suction seating arrangement that allowed me to not even have to fasten my seat belt. If that plane had crashed, our row would have been the safest one on the plane. The g forces required to suck me out of that spot cannot be calculated even by the smartest of computers. It was the safest I’d felt the entire trip.
The Missus? She was in a window seat at the back of plane chatting it up with a Chapel Hill fan.
I pulled out my iPod to try to make the trip go by faster, but lo and behold, the guy to my left wanted to chat it up about everything from what I did for a living, to what I was doing in New York, to how my dad died. Seriously. I’m going to let everyone here know what the etiquette is when someone behind you puts on a pair of headphones.
SHUT THE HELL UP!
There. You’re all caught up, and now you know why I hate American Airlines.
Other Non-Squished Flights Down Memory Lane: (GO READ THEM!)
Corrie’s Memoir Monday: The Unimaginable Happened.
Josh’s Memoir Monday: Inked.
Daffy’s Memoir Monday: If You Can’t Take The Heat, Get Outta The Kitchen.
I was holding a door open with my gut yesterday so that I could get through it without spilling my lunch tray, and I realized something.
My fat has a lot of uses.
Uses that you should totally be jealous of if you’re a flat belly, and uses that you should be utilizing if you’re a fellow fatty.
I’d like to take a moment of your time today to go over these uses.
As usual, I’ve taken the liberty:
I’ve highlighted some areas that we are going to be taking a look at today. The color of the words in the description correspond with the color of the circles or arrow on the picture. Lets kick this mother off. We’ll work our way down the body. (Isn’t it a sexy body?)
Neck Fat: Neck Fat is very useful because it basically allows me to use my neck like a vise. I can stick papers, money, bags of chips, small children, etc. in there, and clamp my chin to my chest, and I’m tellin ya, you’re going to have a hard time getting them out. It’s basically an extra hand. Example: I’m loaded down with books headed to my next class, and someone who owes me money decides to pay me back at that time. Well, I don’t have a hand to take the money with, and I’m not gonna let them stick it in my pocket, so I just lift my head up a little bit, and say, “Stick it right there.” Then I close my neck fat around it, batta bing, it’s more secure than Ft. Knox.
Upper Arm Fat: This can be used in any number of ways. Most used though, and what we’ll be discussing here, is the door close. If you can get it to swing just right, you’ve essentially got the force of a small (or in my case, jumbo “get it to the levee fast to stop the flood”) size sandbag behind it. This, once again, can come in handy when you’ve got your hands full. Grocery bags in both hands? Need to shut your car door because you are fat and lazy and want to spend your time eating the food you just bought instead of coming back outside and closing your door? I understand. Just get that upper arm fat swinging, and use it to catch the door, and slam that bad boy shut. Also works for slamming your child’s door if you’re carrying out an armful of drugs and porno mags that they’ve been hiding under their bed.
The Breast, AKA “Teat” Fat: The Teat has many widely known uses, however we’re going to discuss a new one today. It’s use as a shelf. I could hang pictures on these things if I wanted to. I use them to store crumbs on for snacks later on in the day, and if need be, I can safely place pencils, books, papers, plates, silverware, etc. on my shelves and just let them ride. The teat fat also gives me something to play with when I’m lonely.
Forearm Fat: Do you like to lean a lot? Do you sometimes have trouble leaning for very long because your forearm starts to hurt? Well my friend, I highly recommend growing some extra forearm fat. It’s like leaning on two twin memory foam pillows. They never get tired. I’m serious. Lets have a leaning contest, right now. I’ll win. I can promise you that. Don’t believe me? Try this: Get you two pillows off your couch and duct tape them to your arms. Then, just go lean somewhere. Anywhere. I’ll wait for you to get back. Go.
Eh? Eh? Nice, isn’t it? I know. Unfortunately, I don’t know a way to just grow forearm fat and nothing else. I’ll investigate, and let you know.
Belly, AKA Gut, AKA “Dunlop”, AKA “Dickie Do” Fat: Well, as mentioned above, belly fat makes an incredible door stop. If I stick that gut out there, and I get it wedged in something, for sure, it’s not closing. Ever. This comes in useful when you need to make sure an elevator door needs to stay open, if you have a lady trying to slam a door in your face, or if you need to hold a door open so you can get your lunch tray through. Another use it has is that I can hide things under it. This is cool if you are doing magic tricks for a really dumb kid, or if I wanted to smuggle Calista Flockhart out of the country. Also, I can set drinks on it. Unfortunately, the down side of gut fat is that it leads to an early death. I can’t really think of a good reason for an early death, unless you just really want out of a marriage and/or mortgage payment.
Ass Fat: Ass fat is another thing that can help you close stuff. It’s also useful for stopping things. You should really just make sure what you’re stopping isn’t pointed, unless you’re into that sort of thing. Otherwise you could get into a very socially awkward situation. I actually have a story about ass fat. When I was younger, I was holding the door open at church for some older ladies to leave. As I was letting the door close, one more little old lady walked up. Not wanting to waste time, I just backed into the door, catching it with my ass fat. CRACK! The glass shattered. My father was wicked pissed, and I got in a lot of trouble. This a negative ass fat story. Try to avoid those.
Thigh Fat: Thigh fat comes in very useful when a little kid wants a ride on your leg. “I want a ride on your leg!” “Go on then, grab it.” (child struggles briefly.) “I can’t get my arms around it!” “Too bad kid, now shut up and go bug your mom.” Thigh fat also keeps my bits and pieces very warm and cozy. The negative about thigh fat is that you can sometimes get a mean chaff. This can bring the world down around you, however, if you have Gold Bond powder, you will experience relief like no other. As Kid Funk would say, “It’s like a thousand angels blowing gently on your balls.” That, my friends, is relief.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this lesson on fats and how they can enrich your life. If you have any questions about your fat, or if you want to know any additional uses, feel free to ask. I’ve only touched the tip of the iceberg here today. If you’re a flat belly, and you’d like information on how to grow this kind of useful fat, just let me know. I’d be glad to be your personal trainer. Together, we’ll beat anorexia.
I was not always fat.
In the 3rd grade, I weighed about 6 pounds, and I was 5’11”. I’m exaggerating a bit, but not much. I was skinny. In the 6th grade, I was skinny. In the 7th grade, I was eating a lot, and I was still 5’11”. By 9th grade, I was a solid 200 pounds. Not bad, really. In the 10th grade, I hurt a knee in football, which is another blog, but yeah, Kid Funk did it, and I gained about 60 pounds over the course of 6 months.
I carried it well.
However, in this particular Memoir Monday, it was kind of a bad thing.
My senior class had gone on a field trip to ropes course in Claremore. It wasn’t the whole senior class, just a few of us. The ropes course was generally lame, and it was supposed to teach us about teamwork and what not. It was not really effective.
Then we got to The Pole.
The Pole was a telephone pole that went about 30 feet in the air. You climbed said pole, got to the top, and then jumped out to either grab a pull up bar, or a net, it was your choice.
I don’t do heights.
The Bible specifically says, “Lo, I am with you always.” Jesus said that. That’s real.
Somehow I got talked into doing this. Talk of teamwork and what not, there may have also been talk questioning my sexual orientation and/or etiquette.
So I got harnessed up. (made my junk look HUGE. Question that, bitches.) I got hooked up to my billet line, and I looked down the other end of that billet line, and there stood happy as could be ropes course instructor, who maybe weighed 100 pounds. Little bubbly teenage college chick, about as big around the poop I took that morning. Yeah. Not gonna happen.
She explained to me that the tree trunk the billet line was wrapped around would support most of my weight. And that through physics or some other math, I would actually weigh less than her after it was all said and done. Well, the fact was, she was kind of pretty. All my life, pretty women have been able to talk me into things against my better judgement. This was a perfect example. Not wanting to seem like the biggest vajay ever, I started up that mother lovin pole. (TWSS)
I got about half way up and decided this was the stupidest thing I’d ever done. There was no way that this chick was going to be able to lower my fat ass all the way to the ground. However, I kept on. I got to the top.
30 feet up.
I stood there, and tried to decide whether or not I was going for the net, or the bar. I decided bar.
I hollered down to ol girl, and told her I was going to jump. She said okay, and gave me a look that I’m sure now was one of massive concern, running the gambit from the tensile strength of the rope, to her ability to make sure fatty didn’t drop 30 feet to his death, thus resulting in a party lawsuit from his parents.
I wiped my hands on my pants, and I jumped for the bar.
Folks, it was a 3 foot jump, straight out. I don’t have the timing exactly right, but I’m sure that it took less than a second for me to traverse that distance. In that fraction of time, my hands went from completely dry, to slicker than a slip and slide covered with KY and the morals of the Democratic party.
I hit the bar.
I grabbed the bar.
I slipped off the bar, pretty much the same as you’d see in any movie ever, and began a descent, headfirst…
…TO THE GROUND.
I fell maybe 3 or 4 feet. It took 30 minutes. I know this, because I was there.
The rope caught, and I was jerked back to reality faster than O.J. when he heard the verdict. I stared down at the ground, and saw that skinny college girl had saved life, along with what appeared to be a very badly rope burned tree. Like, maybe it was smoking.
Two of my “friends” had gone on this particular trip, and as I was lowered to the ground, they returned from some trees where they had bolted to, claiming, “We thought you were gonna fall on us!”
A couple of the girls that had gone were crying, and one of them wouldn’t stop until she hugged me to make sure I was alive. It was pretty much the most traumatic thing that has ever happened on any field trip EVER.
No one else did The Pole climb. I don’t think anyone wanted to test that rope again.
I can’t say that I blamed them.
I’ve had it. I’m sick of it, I’m tired of it, this is gonna keep me up nights. Would you like me to tell you what it is?
This is what it is:
Yup. I’m tired of it. It’s ridiculous, it’s racist, it’s stereotypical, and it’s wrong! What if I just had a glandular problem? What if I have really big bones? What if I got stung by a wasp a long time ago and the swelling hasn’t gone down?!?!? Should I have to pay extra for my shirts just because I may or may not have a fat ass?
Fellow fatties, today is the day we take charge. Let us rise as (a really heavy) one and combat these flat bellied shirt makers that think it takes an extra 2 bucks to make our shirts bigger! You and I both know that money is not going to that poor little 6 month old Vietnamese girl who is stitching them up for 35 hours a day! You’re still giving that little girl 2 cents an hour! With no dental! This is wrong, fellow fatties, and it has to be dealt with.
Here is what I propose. All of us fat people need to start wearing larges. Or mediums. Here is what I think will happen. Those pompous flat bellies will see our bulging out wobbly bits, and they will be so disgusted, they will eventually concede that our shirts should cost the same as theirs! This next part is not for the weak of heart or stomach. You’ve been warned.
I’ve taken the liberty of giving you an example, and I’m sorry.
(Note to reader: I really am sorry that you had to see this, but I needed to make a drastic point. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, but I am proud of what the result can be. And yes, The Missus had to help me take this off.)