Fat Chance

The two most frequently asked questions I’m asked are:

1- Will you please stop talking about your wenis?
2- What has changed since you got married?

Consider the first one done, as for the second question the only thing that has changed is me. Now, I’m still the same jerk I’ve always been but now I’m fatter. Yeah, I’m getting fat. It’s not like I’m sweating gravy or wearing a circus tent, but I’ve been stuffing my face since the day I got married and it’s starting to show.

Lately I’m thinking of the last thing my grandmother told me before she passed away. She said:

“You’re getting fat”

That was ten years ago and I immediately changed my eating and exercise habits so that no one would ever, on their last day on earth, call me a fat ass. Sometimes I’d go to nursing homes and ask those people who aren’t looking so spy and ask hem how I look in my pants and for ten years not one elderly person called me fat. Today, the elderly would be lining up to poke my belly to see if I giggle.

I’ve seen this coming for a while now, at first my pants didn’t fit so well but I tried to ignore it. Then I tried to divert attention from it by wearing a jacket or shooting off flares all day long because when you see flares you always look for trouble, not my fat ass.

Anyway, I’m working on getting back to my fighting weight, which is about 15 – 20 pounds lighter than I am now. I think that this weight problem is punishment for a trick I’ve been playing on The Man for a while now. You see, I’m the ideal weight for the height listed on my driver’s license but I’m not that tall. When I first got my drivers license it showed my actual height and weight, but since then I’ve made myself taller every time I’ve had to renew my license. I am now, according to the State of California, several inches taller than I was when I lived in New York. The plan is to be a giant, on paper at least, by the time I turn die in hopes that my obituary will say that I was 8 feet tall and not that I was as big as a house.


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