Scary Politics- Re-post from Oct 2008

I don’t know what disturbs me more…Halloween or Politics. Both scare me. Both require you to disguise who you are so that people will give you things. So it boils down to what disturbs you less…votes or candy. If you are reading this blog, I can only assume your vote has been cast in favor of candy. At least candy gives you some sort of pleasure without all of the drama. Just unwrap, savor and swallow. I guess the same could be said for Politics… except when you get caught unwrapping, savoring and swallowing, drama is surely going to follow! Maybe we should have the candidates dress up and trick or treat for votes. Think about it….if we just knew them for their agendas, we could make a legitimate vote on the issues. My sources tell me (gossiping at the office) that in the history of the Presidency, the better looking candidate has always won. This is why I think Brad Pitt should get on the ballot. He could ban junk food, sex and napping and still get my vote! I would make a wonderful First Fat Lady. So no matter who or what you voted for just know there’s always candy. I know bcs I am still eating my way through a “pumpkin” of Halloween candy that was given to me undoubtedly bcs I am slightly over my BMI. You can’t hide everything under a Halloween costume. In fact, I don’t even dress up. No matter what I put on, I’d always be the fat version of it. “Oh yeah, it’s Plus Size Cinderella or maybe it’s The Wicked Witch of Weight Watchers.” Yeah. I don’t need that. I prefer to answer the door, give out some candy and eat my share until the next victim arrives. I can’t imagine what would happen if a real live politician showed up at my house. I guess I would push my own agenda…like taking the calories off of labels and telling me there’s no trans fat in Ho-Hos. If I’m eating something bad I don’t really need an actual breakdown of how bad it is. If found on an inner aisle, I assume no good can come of it. To that I add, no trans fat in a Ho-Ho implies that I am making a healthy choice. It should just say, “You won’t die as quickly.” Perhaps that’s what labels should do…list the years that will be added or subtracted from your life upon consumption. Umm…I think I’d be on my 14th life. I am glad both Halloween and the Election are over. I am in full on preparation for Thanksgiving. Screw the pilgrims. This is a fatty holiday through and through! Whilst we are on my political agenda…I think triptaphan(sp) overload and Thanksgiving Coma should both be enough of a reason to make the day after Thanksgiving an official holiday. Can someone see to it that we get that on the ballot?

I'm about to...

Re-post my blog from last Halloween. Partly bcs I am very busy working on a large article that's due Friday... and partly bcs it happens to be one of my favorite blogs. You'll recall, last year at this time we were in the midst of an election that would change history. That's great n all but I don't appreciate it when news takes away from the true meaning of the October-November season...food. That's being said, I give you last year's post.

I'll be back over the weekend with more stories of over eating and stealing candy from the crumb snatchers. Until then, don't forget to stock up on the Halloween candy. Lock your door, turn off the lights and enjoy!

Trix are for Kids...

...and so are Froot Loops, Apple Jacks and Frosted Flakes! Says who? Why must everything I love be taken from me? What started with the demise of a solid sugar filled breakfast has now manifested itself into the banishment of adult pleasures. I'm more than willing to forgo my current life in exchange for the acceptable consumption of Pop Tarts and Tater Tots at any age. What happened to Saturday morning cartoons over a bowl of sugared cereal, toast and OJ? It's unheard of after the age of 2. Let's start teaching our children that sugar and carbs are the enemy whilst they are young, so that they can be fat, obsessed, overeating little f'rs before they enter kindergarten! I say, let the little bastards eat what they want and send them out to play until such time that you have to let them back in for fear of the law....I mean until they've worked off their meal...ugghum. Because of parents like you, I'm forced to wake up at the crack of my ass, run a few hundred miles and eat whole grain cardboard just to stay 100 pounds behind the Quarter Pounders (those are the skinny chicks in case you are a new reader). I can't take the pressure of having a love affair with the staples of my childhood. I know I should like baby calves reduced in a fancy sauces on a grassy plate...but I don't. Unless we are talking about 2 all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun... but I don't think those are baby calves....they taste pretty grown up.

It's a good thing I have a husband to blame for what appears in my grocery cart. "Uncrustables," Cheese Puffs, Nutty Buddies....I'm drooling all over the keyboard. Not only are these nostalgic nuggets of nectar considered classic treats of the worldly, the behind the scenes people have even started making them fat friendly. Yup. I can now enjoy whole grain Cheetos, French Fries and Beanie Weenies. Permission to side bar mid-paragraph? Riddle me this...is a fry is a fry by any other name. Perhaps. Apparently, if you call them by their socially acceptable name, Pomme Frites, you are looked upon as a cultured fatty with a distinguished pallet. However comma, when speaking of them in the "ghettonacular", French Fries, you are just plain...well, ghetto. I think the next time I go to McDonald's I'll ask them to super size my Pomme Frites and cringe when they shoot me a blank look...gold teeth glaring... Van Gogh nails scratching at the weave. Yes, that is what I'm going to do. Back on track now... You see what's going on here right? The snooty adult types are robbing the young at heart of their pleasures, turning around, renaming said treats in a foreign tongue and hoping that the we are too dumb to translate. I got news for ya....I'm fatlingual! If it involves food, I speak it sista.

For any of you doubters out there, I give you exhibit A: The rehearsal dinner. Recently I was asked to attend a rehearsal for a wedding I wasn't in. Translation...friendship = free food without laborious duties = happy SIF. As I sipped my beer and made small talk with people I believed to be looking upon me as "slutty" (not far off and proud of it, thank you), I noticed that we had been pre-seated with 2 couples and 2 kids. More beer please. I wasn't in the mood to drink but I also wasn't in the mood for pre-pubescent torture... so beer seemed the obvious choice to stabbing the midgets with my utensils. As I took my seat, I noticed that the kids had sippy cups filled, no doubt, with the likes of fruit punch....my personal favorite. Had I asked the waiter to replace my beer with Hawaiian Punch, I think we all know what would have happened...the looks...the gasps...the kiddie table for this SIF. So, I let it go. At some point, the waitress came over and asked what the adults would like to eat. The choices were slabs of beef, fish and potatoes. Fine. That is, until, without warning, the children were served pizza, fries and applesauce. Let me tell you how that felt to me....like watching the groom admit, in front of the entire wedding party that he's been shagging his 70 year mother-in-law and she's pregnant with their love child. Something like that. Are you freaking kidding me? That's a meal fit for a SIF who's tucked safely in her "womb" where she can't be judged. It took everything I had to watch those little rats dip their Pomme Frites in applesauce whilst eating the innards of their pizza and leaving the crust behind as a sign that they lead a much better life than I! Dammit! Shoulda stabbed um while I had the chance....

I dream of the days when I had "people" who would make me whatever I wanted whilst I watched Tom & Jerry and decided who would be the lucky recipient of my intolerable behavior.
The worst thing that ever happened to me was getting sent to my room. You'll recall, that's where Mommy stashed the peanut M&M's....not such a bad deal for a kid like me. Perhaps my "womb addiction" began in the days of Coco Puffs and Mac-n-Cheese. I'm no head shrink but I think someone should have a talk with Mother. I fear she may be to blame for my dependence on childlike substances. I'll leave you with a thought...I use to order fruit punch at business meetings whilst the professional types ordered coffee and tea. I thought they liked me enough to overlook my "Kool-Aid" issues. Apparently not...as I was terminated on the ride home with random strangers in the vehicle. "Your position has been eliminated," was the phrase of choice. Translation, "We gave your job to someone who drinks coffee, fatty." This is the corporate gospel according to "the man." Another day...another reason to binge eat.

The Womb...

The place where it all begins...for most of us. I must admit that I've met a few people along the way that have made me question this theory, but let's go with it for lack of a better answer. When most people hear the word "womb," they picture a warm, safe place somewhere inside the belly...perhaps behind the 400 pounds of chocolate that most pregnant women consume. When a SIF hears the word "womb," warm and safe take on a whole new meaning! Only a true SIF understands how closely related words like "conception" and "consumption" truly are. Picture animals in the wild...the kind who eat their young. I've often had such thoughts. That is why I, in fact, have no "young." I can't be trusted around a fridge, much less a tasty little brat. So I've done the next best thing...I have recreated the womb to accommodate my needs as a fatty...without fearing the long arm of the law. Good upstanding citizen...that's me.


My version of the womb does not require a fish or an egg. I like to keep it simple. Martha Stewart agrees with my theory, by the way. Smart lady...except the part where her theories got her thrown in jail. Not so simple, was it, hussie? However, I have allowed her into my womb...even with a rap sheet. I'm just gonna come right out and say it...Martha and I are sleeping together. No, I am not a Double Whopper (for you new readers...that's a fatty lesbian...and I love the gays so don't go there). I happen to enjoy rubbing my ass all over her 50,000 count sheets. In case you aren't as smart as I'd hoped you'd be, my womb is in fact my bedroom. I realize that some of my readers rode the short bus, so from time to time I like to give away the answers to my blatantly obvious riddles. That's about as compassionate as I get. Moving right along....yes, my bedroom is the womb. It's a palace of perfection fit for a fatty. I've got cable, candy, cock and clothing. I ask you...does it get any better than that? Why sure it does...those are only the "C's!" There's never a bad time of day to plant your fat ass on a Temperpedic mattress along side 400 of the squishiest pillows you've ever felt whilst melting under dim lighting to hide the dents. As if that isn't enough to make an embryo jump ship...the piece with little resistance...I eat in the womb. Granted, no one feeds me, but I'm in to cross training so it works.

Let's do some quick math shall we? Wasn't my best subject in school but I'm gonna give it a shot. If there are 24 hours in a day, take away the 5 hours that I work (clearly an over achiever)...bababababum...that leaves 19 hours...and I spend every minute of those 19 hours in the womb. There's nowhere else I'd rather be. Where else can you eat Taco Bell naked in bed while watching Fit TV? The living room perhaps? I don't think so! Aside from the fact that anyone who saw me naked would risk immediate death, the couch is leather...leather and a bare ass is not only painful but the acoustics aren't ideal for the gassy nights. It just doesn't work... under any circumstance. I also find the living room very open and cold. The womb has warm colors painted on the walls, expensive room darkening blinds to keep out the curious (clearly doing them a favor) and... well, the Rabbit. "He" is not allowed out without supervision. I have certain friends (you know who you are) who would take any opportunity to kidnap my purple penis of pleasure. Back off bitches. He likes the fatties. Yes, there are some draw backs to my womb. Crumbs in the bed, my husband, crumbs in the bed, my husband...you get the point. The benefits clearly outweigh the draw backs. I often wonder why it's so easy to get the crumbs out of my bed yet my husband refuses to budge? I can usually solve that problem by making him watch a few episodes of "Snapped" whilst giving him the crazy eye. Whoda thunk that antifreeze was the murder weapon of choice amongst housewives? I hear it tastes sweet...fatties beware! I'd much rather slip him Cialis and get a rise out of him....

If you haven't created a womb for yourself (and I suspect you have without knowing it), you really should. Every fatty needs a place to call her own. A place where she can binge, bang and belch without the fear of retaliation. I'm 2 out of 3 on that last statement. Someone once told me, "You fly I'll buy," whilst trying to get me out of the womb for a Taco Bell run. "That's a pretty good offer for a girl like me."---random Pretty Woman reference. However, not even monetary compensation can lure me from the depths of the womb. That's why they have delivery. Now if I could just get them to bring it into the womb all would be right with the world. Working on that....

New Blog

Coming tomorrow.....stay tuned.
SIF