Fat Ass

To Mother With Love...

The following is a text exchange between the original Sister in Fat (My Mother) and myself.

*Background info- today is her wedding anniversary...that would be her fake wedding anniversary twice over... forced at the hands of the moral police we shall call "me"* Proceed

Me: Happy Anniversary Mother

Mother: Thank you

Me: I hope Dad gets lucky

Mother: Real nice. What about me?

Me: I assume this would provide some enjoyment for you as well.

Mother: You need to get a boyfriend

Me: Nice

Mother: I hope he doesn't require batteries

Me: Stop reading my blog

So...with that, I wish all the SIF Happy Valentines! Eat lots of chocolate and screw after dark. Fat rolls look better after sunset. Love

Mr. Sandman, bring me a......

Have you ever had a dream that made you jump out of bed and say, "What the Fuck?" Or as my friend Andie would say, "Oh my Gawd!" And I'm not talking about a "Someone stole my candy bar" kinda dream. Don't mess with a fat girl and her shugga. Even in my sleep I will take you out. Typically, my dreams involve 1 of 2 things...Brad Pitt or Fried Chicken. Sometimes these two dreams morph into one super dream. Me and Brad sharin a bucket a fried chicken. Greasy. Yummy. Scandalous. I know that bitch Angelina aint eatin no fried chicken. She always looks hungry. So unattractive Angie. So unattractive. Anyway, so that would be an average trip down REMory lane for this SIF. One would think I would dream about sex since my current love interest involves a plastic rabbit that bites. No one likes a biter. There wasn't a warning on the box, fyi. Why dream about sex when you can eat fried chicken with Brad Pitt? Duh. An orgasm is an orgasm. So mine is a little greasier than most. Don't be judgie. What would make me jump out of bed screaming bloody murder....why an orgasm at the grocery store of course!

I can't make this shit up. I'd like you to think I have this super vivid imagination that allows for endless material. However, my life is too vivid in and of itself to go out creating more fucked up shit. I'm kind of a big deal like that. You'll recall "This can't be my life" allows for many layers of fuckedupedness. Yes Mother. I am saying fuck a lot. I try and get all my fucking out of the way on days that end in "Y." In any event, I am about to reveal a dream that will change your opinion of me forever. I can't be sure that's a bad thing. I will preface this revelation with the following public service reminder...we can't control our dreams. That's why no one's judging you for sticking the cucumber up your ass and actually liking it. You were helpless to defend yourself. The part where you used it in your tossed salad...now that's just sick. But you dreamt it. No control over your dreams. If shitty cucumbers turn you on, have at it. Just remind me not to accept your dinner invitation.

I'm stalling. Ok. Here goes. Well...let me first say I don't remember what I ate for dinner that night and I don't know where I was in my monthly cycle. I wish I had something like that to grab on to. Or a nice juicy wein, as it were. I'm getting sidetracked again. I can only say I went to bed as I always do. Naked and loaded down with just enough drugs to make sure I slept well and rose on time. It's quite a science. It's getting tougher since they started carding for Benadryl. I swear I'm not mixing up crack. Just making sure my ass goes to sleep. In light of some recent developments pertaining to the demise of my marriage, I should be able to cut back on at least 12 to 14 pills a night. Maybe. I'm currently going to bed humming "All my exes live in Texas." I only have 1 and he is in fact in Texas. I hate country music. However, if the shoe fits...be thankful it's at least 5 states away. The upside...he didn't kill me before he left. I was sure that was eminent. The smell of gun cleaner waffled through our home from the time I announced it was over until he left the state. For a while I thought I got a bad lot of Airwick room fresheners. Then I realized they don't make a "time to kill your wife" scent. Scary. Good thing he used my bread pan to hold the cleaner. "SIF unravels plot on her life after discovering missing bread pan being used as gun cleaning agent." Clearly the only way I would ever unravel a death plot against my life. It would have to involve food. How did I get off track again? Can't be sure.

So I dreamed I was having an orgasm in front of Wegman's. In my car. In the parking lot. Watching people walk in and out. For those who don't know what Wegman's is...I'm sorry to reveal it's a grocery store. A very nice grocery store. With good kind employees. Great service. Good food. And freaks in the parking lot as it were. Why? Why would I be rubbin one out in the parking lot of Wegman’s? Why? We don't even have Wegman’s in NC. Not that it really matters. As a fatty, I've been known to travel for good food. I could see if I was masturbating over the donuts. That's perfectly acceptable. Especially the ones with sprinkles. I may get 2 out of that. But the parking lot? Watching people walk in and out. Maybe it was the in and out part. I don't have specifics. Such as, was the rabbit involved? Was I flying solo? Was some creepy guy waiting for his wife in the next car watching me? I don't know. I just know it was good, I got busted and drove off in a hurry. I wish I could tell you I woke up, grabbed a shower and asked the good Lord for forgiveness. That would be a lie. I was still asleep. Speeding out of the parking lot. I'm sure I wasn’t paying attention to the arrows. Sex felons tend to ignore things like that. I feared my picture would appear in Wegman’s everywhere. "Wanted. Fat Sex offender. Known to spontaneously rub one out. Anywhere." I would bring scandal to fatties everywhere. Good thing I drive fast...

In fact, I drove so fast...the next part of my dream almost makes less sense than the first. As I sped out of the Wegmans parking lot running from the sex police/shopping cart retrieval boy, I almost missed one of this country’s greatest landmarks. Long John Silver’s. They are a rare sight these days. I've been known to drive miles out of my way to enjoy some crunchies. Even though you actually have to ask for them now. SO barbaric. Anyway, I was driving down this big hill and over my right shoulder I saw the LJS. Yes, I drive looking over my right shoulder. Good damn thing I did. Mighta missed the Silver. Anyway, I did what any civilized human would do upon seeing such a historic treasure....SLAMMED ON THE DAMN BRAKES! I vividly recall pumping the brakes like I was gettin paid to do so! Yeah...you'll recall this is a dream. A dream where I just got chased out of the grocery store parking lot for perv like behavior. So what do you suppose happened next? The unthinkable. No brakes. No mother freakin brakes! What the hell kind of dream is this?! I pumped and pumped. Nothing. Down the hill I went... crunchies fading in the distance. It's a wonder I didn't have a massive heart attack and die in my sleep. Nope. Instead I had to wake up AND remember every detail of this nightmare. And share it with you. I'm an artist. Anything for my public.

What does this say about me? My husband should have shot me whilst he had the chance! I am a meat beatin Long John Silver's addict. I don't think there's currently a support group for this crowd. By crowd I mean me. I doubt anyone but me would come forward. "Hello my name is SIF. I like to masturbate in the grocery store parking lot and I have an inappropriate relationship with a man named Silver and his crunchies." Nope. Not another one out there. I need one of those dream people to tell me what it all means. Yeah, no I don't. Any idiot could decipher this one. I need to get laid immediately if not sooner and I'd prefer the evening to include my favorite fine dining fast food establishment. Simple as that.

Do you suppose I could write a country song that incorporates "All my exes live in Texas," public masturbation and Long John Silver’s? I'm gonna get to work on that. Grammy award winning song writer, fat and freak nasty? Well fuck! Yes Mother, that last fuck was for you. Have fun in Wegmans. I'll be in the car.

Happy Super Bowl!

New Blog This Week!

Stay tuned....

Fatty Police are out in full force!

Watch out Paula..."they" are watching! This is the real reason I can't write my book. I fear the paparazzi will catch me eating a Combo #2 and washing it down with a Diet Coke. And use words like "wolfing." I aint mad at ya Paula. Wolf on. So ya got the sugar. Cheeseburgers are so worth death. I love the last sentence…classic.

Courtesy of Yahoo..
Last week, TV chef Paula Deen announced that she's been suffering from type 2 diabetes for the past three years. She acknowledged that a person has "to make changes in your life" but apparently, Deen hasn't apparently changed all that much. TMZ posted a photo of Deen wolfing down a cheeseburger on Monday while on a 7-day Caribbean cruise. The 65-year-old chef was hosting her annual Party at Sea vacation for 400 fans. TMZ says Deen also had fries on her plate.

What's in your wallet?

Not Peggy....that's for sure. If I'm going to steal someone's identity, it's certainly not going to be an overweight man, in a tacky sweater, calling himself Peggy. I'd go Oprah or Paula Dean. One part over eater, a gazillion parts money. Scratch Paula...she has to cook and she's got the sugar. I hate cooking and I only like powdered sugar. I'm quite sure Oprah throws her billions around in lieu of doing anything short of wiping her own ass. My kind of gal. Far as I know, she aint got the sugar. Where am I going with this? Somewhere. I was re-reading my blog about "what's in my cart" and realized this identity crisis extends far beyond the grocery store. In fact, I seem to be living as someone else in almost every aspect of my life. The only time I am legitimately me...in the womb (climate/stimulant controlled bedroom for you newbie’s) with my rabbit and some post climatic treats. I'm not sure why I ever leave the womb. Stupid work.

Checkout my purse. I am secretly bitter I even have to carry one. Dumb guys get to carry wallets. What's in their wallets? Condoms and money. What does that say about women? We are for sale as long as you protect us from your recent purchases. I'm ok with that. I wish it were that easy across the pond in Vagina land. Nope. We basically prepare for every fuckin thing that would/could/should ever happen in the next 20 years. Why? I have no answers. If I were Oprah, someone would carry my purse and this would be a non-issue. Since I am not in fact a successful, rich black woman, let's see if we can figure out who I am bcs I can't be sure. Should the contents of my purse fall on the ground for all to see, I'm quite sure it wouldn't reveal anyone who resembles me. The following items currently reside on my hip...ughum:

* A 40 pound wallet. Bcs I'm broke...but have lots of change.

* A business card for the local psychic. You'll recall my mantra, "This can't be my life." She's working on channeling New Me. I'll keep ya posted on that.

* Gum. I don't chew gum. I find it tacky. Sorry. I do. However, when one has stank breath, a couple of chews brings things back around. Downside...the fake sugar makes me hungry. Secretly bitter that the cost of good breath is hunger. I carry it in a ghetto Ziploc bag. It always falls out of the package. Don't be judgie.

* A tooth brush, tooth paste and floss. When I can't suck the goodness from lunch out of my teeth, I'm forced to let it go down the drain. Waste of money and leftovers. However, a good fatty knows to store leftovers in her teeth. Doggie bags are for amateurs.

* Almonds. Who am I? Almonds? Better off going outside and nibbling on tree bark. Bout the same flavor. Yes Mother, I know they taste great roasted in the oven on 350 for 15 minutes and that you just sent me a 50lb bag from BJ's....and no I won't waste them.

* Tot Wipes. No children. However, ass wipes for men and babies always seem to be cheaper than ass wipes for women. Women are expected to keep themselves clean no matter the cost. Men and babies need someone to wipe their asses for them. Apparently the extra labor warrants a discount. So I'm a frugal ass wiper. Babies....men..no shame.

* A bottle opener. Don't have me sitting across from a bottle of wine I can't open. Feral Fatty take 2.

* 8 stolen pens with no tops leaking ink all over my purse. Leakage. Never good.

...and last but not least...random crumbs. Not sure how they got in there. I'm not known for sharing. Not easy to get them out either. Ever vacuum a purse?

So who am I? If one were trying to piece it all together after a tragic accident wherein as the contents of my purse were the only thing left to identify me...who would I be? Jane Doe. A. My license looks nothing like me. It was taken in leaner times. Clearly I would be jailed for identity theft should I survive. That is unless my passport happened to be on my person. I had a fat watermelon head in that photo. B. If there was a tragic accident, I would surely shit my pants thus rendering the baby wipes fraud. C. Stolen pens. Picture all that is me chained to a hospital bed awaiting someone from HOJO to stop by and identify said stolen merchandise. It's all around ugly. This isn't me! I'm just an overly hygienic, non almond eating/gum chewing, pen stealing, tooth brushing, wine drinker, with an inordinate amount of spare change who desires to know what the future holds. It's all my personalities rolled into one. I really need to start naming them and carrying the appropriate identification.

**Amber Alert! Missing Fatty. Lost in her own madness. Not sure how to find her as she presents multiple personalities.** You can start by not posting my picture around town. Don't appreciate that at all. Unless it's from back in the day. In which case I would never be found. You'd be better off putting my mug on a grocery cart or at Taco Bell. They know me by name. Let's face it. I'm not trying to disguise myself physically. I'd just lose weight if I wanted to do that. Dumb. I'm perpetrating an elaborate fraud. Hmmm...she wakes up and runs 5 miles every day yet I swear I saw her binge eating burritos in the Taco Bell parking lot. Yet when we go to lunch she eats salads and can't finish her meal. She drinks water and Diet Coke. I saw her just last week buying Skim milk and apples. ....I'm good. I'm damn good. Serial Killers could learn a little something from this fatty. Always on the move. Never know who's gonna present.

Tell Amber to come on over if she wants to find this SIF. I have a drop drawer in the house I use to store snacks for the other personalities. I "use ta could" (southern vernacular also used by our state Senator..ughum) blame my husband. Since he's no more, I had to create alternate personalities for blaming purposes. Just like the crazies. I prefer to call them the fatties. Would you rather be fat or crazy? Why not both. They say fat girls are better in bed. Or at least give better blow jobs. I'm just repeating what I hear. It makes sense. If some hot guy agrees to overlook layers of doughnut damage, I'd be expecting a good BJ too. So what if she's a little crazy. Probably means she likes in the back door. You can't expect her to enter through the same entrance as the hot chicks. Duh

Lesson time. What have we learned? I have multiple layers of complex fat which even Dr. Henry Lee would have trouble deciphering upon my demise. I promise you one thing "Hank," unlike most; it won't be blunt force trauma to the head. I'm too big for that. More like death by fry...or something along those lines. Check the arteries. They are currently the only thing around me that's hard. Other than El Conejo. He doesn't count. He stays hard. Men should start carrying pocket books so we might further analyze their ridiculous behaviors. I fear it wouldn't end well for them. I am insane. Does anyone consider this news? I eat in bed and have sex with a plastic bunny....and my Mother reads this. I think that qualifies me for some sort of medication. If you want Grandchildren Mother, find me a man with more than one leg who doesn't run on batteries... post haste. My eggs are rotting. If you want to meet the "real me," call my psychic. She's currently the only hope I have of meeting me. "This can't be my life."

This would so be my child....tears, drama, lies....doughnuts!

Finally...something I can use

Lights Out...

Or back on as it were. Mine went out three years ago. And not because I failed to pay the power bill. I could care less about electricity quite frankly. My man runs on batteries. No monthly bill..no back talk. It's freakin genius. Perhaps you aren't hip to the light that should be shining between your legs? Should, being the operative word. And no, I'm not talking about dick. If you find a mind who illuminates your beav... please private message me his digits. I could use a surge right about now. In any event, stop what you're doing and look between your legs. No, not at your vagina. Damn you SIF have a one track mind! Put your feet together and look at the creases (between your legs) from your vag to your feet. For the record there should be 3. One between your ankles and calves, one between your calves and inner thighs and one between your inner thighs and vag. They should be oval shaped. In theory light should be shining through the holes. For those of you residing in total darkness, emergency power is available. I believe they call it P90X, as it were.

I don't know what enlightened idiot decided to share this piece of useless information with me years ago. If I happen to remember...I will cut you. In addition to jumping on the scale every 10 seconds, I now count creases. It's very "Rain Man." In the lean years I had more than enough light to go around. Then darkness descended upon all that is me. It's no fun keeping your pussy in the dark. The kitty likes light. I feel like there should be some sort of back-up beaver generator for the dark, depressing fat days. I've looked. There's not. Guys come up with so many useless gadgets. Of course they wouldn't have a clue about pussy illumination. That would make sense. Hell we might even be able to assemble it without calling in a specialist. Crazy talk. Anyway, let there be light! I'm happy to say my "girl" is basking in the sun once again! Three creases and 34lbs later I believe myself to be marketable.

 *Disclaimer- if you find yourself obsessively counting creases and measuring light fractions, don't blame me. I already told you, some other asshole is responsible. Appreciate the additional blow to your self esteem and move on*

Being that I am a solution based fatty (in addition to feral and food aggressive) let's take a look under the hood...or better yet...in the cart and see if we can't shed some light.

We are officially 2 weeks into the New Year.  I'm confident your first trip to the gym ended with a visit to some random drive-thru. It's hard to go from "Pookie" to "Snookie" overnight. And if your aspirations include "Snookie" you might as well just stay fat. Fat is much classier. I promise you. In any event. What's in the cart bitches? A friend once told me (not the crease asshole) that you can learn everything you need to know about a woman by what's in her cart. Panic here. Said friend was a grocery store clerk. Who knew they were so judgy? I would so be doing the same thing. Fat lady buying skim milk and Ho-Ho's. I fear I couldn't contain myself. I can only imagine what he thought of me. I guess it would depend on the day. Sunday's my cart is filled with half fat and half new me. You are highly trained at this point in the game... you know the reason. Binge Sunday in preparation for "New Me Monday." Sing it with me sisters. Macaroni & cheese, that ho Lil Debbie, apples and hummus. Complete cluster fuck of madness. Much like my life at present. However, catch me on a random Tuesday and things appear much more melodic. 100% fat. Look. I eat all the fatty food Sunday night, puke and vow to turn things around on Monday. I am literally reborn every Monday morning. It's very biblical. I'm not quite sure if that means I'll be heading due North or South. Either way I need a vacation. Monday I eat all the "right" things. Right according to the same asshole who has me counting creases. Tuesday...deals off. I'm over the hummus, apples and ab work. I'm back in bed with Lil' Debbie and the bitch tastes like Heaven! Take that and put it in your cart!

After giving it some additional thought, there is one day of the year when my cart is in complete harmony. Everything flows to the tune of someone I don't know. The person I want to be. I'm sure she's witty, charming and quite thin. I wouldn't know bcs we've never in fact met. The closest I've come is channeling her via my New Years day shopping cart. Every January 1st I single handily perpetrate the biggest fatty fraud on record. I shop for someone I don't know. Apples, bananas, grilled chicken, fresh veggies, whole wheat bread...I literally reached over to grab some triple stuffed, super sized caramel brownies and walked off with someone elses cart. How is this possible? Guilt propels me to the checkout and sanity insists I put everything in the freezer as there's no way I'm ever eating any of it. Showing up and putting forth the effort is essential to any solid identity theft. Just walk past the gym the first week in January. The landscape gets a bit scary. Fat drippings and grease stained T-shirts running on treadmills. I use the word "running" quite loosely.  Fraud is rampant in the fatty community. We need some sort of fatty McGruff to snuff out the perps.

What have we learned from all of this? I can't be sure. If I had to guess I would say, "Always leave a light on. You never know who may be cumming for dinner. No one likes to eat in the dark. It's a fact. Get a canopy for your shopping cart if you can't get your shit together! It makes sense. If you go to the trouble of covering your fat with baggy shirts....give your fellow shoppers the same level of respect and hide the evidence from the scene of the crime." I'm just making suggestions here people. If you're a balls to wall fatty...let it all hang out. Get a box of Ho-Ho's with no price. Let the cashier call you out. While your at it... have her announce a request for potent vaginal creme to clear up the mold in your girl. Let the light in sisters. Let it in.