Can't touch this

If you think for one minute the aforementioned Fat Back incident kept me from the annual servicing of my “Mercedes,” think again. You’ll recall, this SIF doesn’t take her “Mercedes” to Jiffy Lube. That shit goes right back to the dealer. Said dealer happens to be in the Nation’s Capital. Very fitting, as she happens to be commander and chief of all that is me. Presidential Puss, if you will. In any event, it was time to hit the road. I make it a rule to never travel alone. No, not because I am afraid some random stranger posing as a cop will pull me over, hack me up and put me in a barrel never to be seen again. Ok maybe it crossed my mind. Clearly I need to ease up on the Dateline. No, because I need someone to blame when I end up at McDonald’s after endless conversations about needing to lose weight. It doesn’t exactly work when you talk to yourself about losing weight, yourself agrees, only to convince you it can wait until after a juicy combo #1, super-sized. I gave the leading role in this comedic tragedy to “Mandrea” (SIF/NIF/HIF). Much like me, she’s kind of a big deal.

“Mandrea” and I had been separated for quite some time due to my Fat Back. Whilst I was away, she was busy trying to create “New Her.” I didn’t appreciate that shit one bit. Nothing I couldn’t destroy in one weekend of binge eating. Bla Bla “I don’t drink and I’m counting points.” Not anymore sister. Not anymore. Road Trippin with Queen Fatty trumps all that shit. For reals? We hadn’t been on the road long before I got hungry. Shocking? I thought not. You should know by now, the sole reason I love driving anywhere is the thought of stopping for food that would otherwise be deemed unacceptable. I should back up and tell you I was supposed to be on the Atkins Diet. Key word being supposed to. Ughum. So “Mandrea” had her points to deal with and I had…my conscience. As if this has ever deterred me. SIF trick #4321: Always let the passenger pick the graze. This allows for guilt free consumption…on my part. She picked Wendy’s. Great…the little redhead demon with the pony tails and bad fries. For some reason people think Wendy’s is healthy. As much as the Chika Filet people are churchy, I suppose. In any event, I actually had a craving for a grilled chicken sandwich. Yes, I said grilled. I was equally as shocked. I knew we would be having a full on fat fest later that night with SIF #3. This allowed for a semi healthy flash of insanity. Part of me didn’t even want fries. Clearly a replacement part. Not wanting to eat up all her points, (bcs she still hadn’t figured out just how far she would be in the hole after a weekend with me), she ordered some sort of dollar wrap. I can’t remember the last time I ate something that cost a dollar. Oh, yes I can. Her name was Little Debbie and she was delicious. Don’t judge. It’s legal in several states.

As luck would have it, the Fatty God’s were not amused by my random brush with healthiness. So…they made sure I had a cheeseburger. A bacon double cheeseburger to be exact. I had broken SIF rule #6754: Never leave the drive through without checking your bag. This rule was designed to prevent a SIF from ending up with something healthy. And it worked…without even checking. I hadn’t even left the parking lot when I discovered the bait and switch. So, what’s a fatty to do? I picked the bacon off. That counts for something. I could barely hear over the sound of my own chewing. I needed something to get my mind off the fact I actually wanted something healthy and was knee deep in a double bacon cheeseburger…minus the bacon. So, I asked “Mandrea” to tell me all about the points. Mostly so I could figure out how I could derail her. And then she handed it to me. Another gift from the Fatty God’s. Two in one day. That’s pretty good. “Oh my Gawd (insert Pittsburgh accent)! I forgot my wallet.” Oh my Gawd is right! You are now at the mercy of this SIF. Every meal, every drink, every suckin (that’s for you Mother) point would be controlled by me. Screw you Weight Watchers. Queen Fatty calls check mate! Of course I said something to the effect of, “Don’t worry, I got your back.” Literally. And her back would be slightly larger after this mishap.

After hours spent in rush hour traffic, listening to the sounds of “How many cuss words can I spew in a 2 mile radius,” we arrived at SIF #3’s house. She wasn’t home from work yet. She text me the following, “I’ll be home at 5:45pm. Do you want to eat right away?” Clearly we had been separated too long. So I went with it. “Yes, I’ve hardly eaten anything all day.” I knew SIF#2 turned Weight Watchers trader couldn’t bust me. If you don’t say it out loud it never happened. Off we went to one of my favorite restaurants. And early enough not to wait for a table. As you are aware, food aggression is a problem for me. “Mandrea” was trying to figure out how many points were in this and that. I told her she could borrow some of my points to put with the 47 bonus points she gets per week. Problem solved. And you wonder why I can’t go on a diet? I drink more than 47 points in a single sitting. When they come out with a wine friendly diet for the food aggressive fatty, ring me up. In the meantime, I’ll have everything from the left over. We had sautéed muscles, Caesar salad, pasta, wine, wine and wine. To my dismay, no dessert. I never answer that question when asked. My answer is always yes. The rest of the general population claims they are too full. I call bullshit. The day you are too full for sugar is the day I go friend shopping. I realized it was what had to happen and insisted we go to the wine store so I could drink my remaining points. Clearly delusional. I had to be up early to “take my car to the shop.” The part where I gave no thought to binge eating the night before the weigh in, should tell you how much this fat back incident has affected my few remaining brain cells. I just didn’t care. I had the perfect excuse for weight gain. Fat back.

We woke at the crack of my ass to ensure we made it to the dealer on time. SIF#3 was kind enough to leave us an Atkins and a gluten free bar. Nice gesture but I never eat before a weigh in…unless it’s the night before, apparently. Besides, we had a whole eating agenda of Dr.’s that didn’t include Dr. Atkins or Dr. Gluten free. I warned “Mandrea” about evil receptionist at the “dealer.” I think she thought I was exaggerating, until I left her alone with her for 30 minutes to get my undercarriage analyzed. I travel 5 hours, once a year to have my girl serviced and she likes to tell me she won’t take an out of state check for my $25 co-pay or call me to remind me of my appointment because it’s long distance. If she wasn’t old and blind, I would have opened my robe in the front, walked into her area and exposed all that is me. She would then be a mute and all my problems would be solved. Instead, I just left her with “Mandrea.” I haven’t seen dumb nurse in 2 years. After yesterday’s binge eating incident, I certainly could have used her. Nope. I got reoccurring militant nurse. I asked her to weigh me in Kilo’s throwing in something about that’s how they do it at Duke. She wasn’t amused. While I lay there naked, with my socks on, robe opened in the front for penetration…I mean examination, I thought to myself, “No woman could possibly feel skinny in this getup. I don’t care who you are.” Bright lights, backless robes and metal puss openers lying around. No good can come of this. I decided to work on my “this is why I’m fatter than you’d like me to be” speech. In walks Dr. Hottie. I forgive him for his over talking because he’s handsome and knows stuff. My standards just aren’t that high. He said my blood pressure was good and I’d only gained 1lb since last year. I decided I wouldn’t go into my dissertation on the weight of fat vs. muscle and how I clearly should weigh less given my level of movement over the past 2 months. He was pleased and that’s all that mattered. Call me crazy, I’m a pleaser when it comes to the puss. He asked me about my Fat Back and I obliged with stories of venereal crabs running about in my back. He understood and agreed I should just keep eating as much as I wanted until I was healed. Or maybe I passed out from the cold specula in my…..
It was time to save Andrea from evil receptionist. Whilst she was highly traumatized, I will still high from the results of my servicing. Only 1 pound since last year! This meant I could eat the rest of the weekend away. I had extra points!! Off to Dr.#2. I shall call him “Club Foot Dr.” There were only 2 things he wasn’t allowed to say. Bunion and Hammer Toe. That’s it. Everything else was fair game. He looked at the aforementioned club foot and determined my issues were coming from the fat back incident. Fabulous. I was relieved not to hear the 2 words. I couldn’t leave well enough alone and went on to ask about the bone sticking out of my toe…that was actually a joint. A hammer joint! Fuuuuuck! I can’t have fat back AND Hammer time!!! This kills all my chances for sex. Fresh off a clean servicing only to realize I’d never see penis again! Being fat is one thing. They make soft lighting for that. There’s no disguising Hammer Time! Can’t touch this!

I was starving and traumatized. We headed for the trough. Better known as Sweet Water Tavern. They serve bread that tastes like donuts…all day long. 11 years since I lived in the area lest I forget who serves bread that tastes like donuts. My fat memory cells are in great working order, thank you very much. I couldn’t decide between pork bbq and fajitas. Secretly I was trying to figure out how I could squeeze in this meal and still be hungry for dinner. I would will myself into hunger should this problem arise. Mind you, it rarely arises. So I ordered the fajitas. Which would have been great…had they not brought me a giant mushroom fajita! Had I wanted fungus fajitas I would have dug them from the ground and made them myself. I said meat…as in chicken and steak. I switched to the bbq, keeping the fajita fixings they mistakenly brought me ahead of the meal. SIF 1…stupid donut bread restaurant 0. It was time to work off some food aggression. I was in search of German Schnapps. This would be the equivalent of a marathon. After traveling 3 states, unable to locate said Schnapps, it was time for a nap. Resting is key when creating a dinner appetite.
We made an executive decision to never leave the house again…until it was time to go home that is. We had grand visions of shopping. We nixed that citing the points would lead to random weight loss thus rendering our new wardrobe dead to us. When it doubt, drink wine. We had enough on hand to drink away the day and any points that were unaccounted for. We were one bottle in when the hunger pangs struck. Being that “Mandrea” is gluten free, we ordered pizza. It fit within the theme of insanity. Food Coma, wine buzz and no energy for the dance party we’d been threatening all day, we went to bed. After all, the best place to burn calories is in bed. I was missing a key component to this plan…penis. Which I would clearly never be getting ever again. I tucked my Hammer Toe between the sheets and turned on 48 hours. Watching stories of people in the less desirable position of being murdered made me feel better…somehow. I couldn’t wait for morning. We were going to the Silver Diner for chipped beef…woot woot! Shit on a shingle would be the climax of my weekend. Again, our timing was impeccable. No waiting means no one gets stabbed with a fork. Ideal.

Time to get on the road and bring the boyfriend up to speed. He would soon know he was hooking up with MC Fatty. Less than ideal. We were making one more stop along the way…for Schnapps. The things I do for my vices. Once again, we were stopped in traffic. This time, someone was actually dead…or they better be. Traffic was backed up for hours. I decided to take a super-secret back way to avoid the commoners. That worked for about 5 minutes. I was starting to have panic attacks. What if I had to pee? What if the shit on the shingle decided to rage war and needed an escape route? Even worse…what if I got hungry?!!! I decided to look around for something to take my mind off the madness. Instead, I found the very thing that would give me a seizure. If you are going to have a great big sign for your business, please employ a company that works with spellcheck. Whilst I can still figure out what Laundromat means when it’s spelled incorrectly, it serves as a reminder that someone who can’t spell owns their own business whilst I travel the roads working for the man sporting a hammer toe. Thank you for that. We made one last stop for the Schnapps. No go. So, we decided to eat. By now “Mandrea” was borrowing points from Jenny Craig. Not to mention, the amount of gluten in her gut was enough to put her in a coma. We made an additional stop to visit a good friend who lost her father the day before. She gave me a gem…apparently I’m allowed to refer to my Hammer Toe as “Surfer Toe.” It’s genius. A disfigured toe disguised as a sporting injury. This is why we as SIF must stick together. Can’t touch us...stop...Fatty time!

Trippin...Dirty Style

After months of lying flat on my fat back it was time to get out. After all, moving is key to the “binge eating as a hobby” agenda. Sitting in front of the glass door like a dog got is not. I’d always envisioned pointless eating and napping to be more entertaining. There’s a missing element…you have to be getting one over whilst being pointless. Example (for the short bus fatties)…I’m supposed to be at the gym/work/saving the world…yet there I lie on the couch watching The Biggest Loser, eating the pizza I ordered without moving an inch. Like that. Having Fat Back doesn’t qualify. I didn’t dare call the meal train fatties and request random entertainment. They would just bring more food. I wanted it. My ass…did not. So I called upon a slightly shadier crowd. My “dirty girl” fatties. Don’t even act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Snap your thong and stay with me. It was February. You know what that means? Yes, Valentine’s Day. And? Yes, chocolate. And? Yes, sex. And? Yes, the reveal. I always dread the reveal. Why doesn’t Valentine’s Day come at a more appropriate time? Like, July, when I’m tan and less voluminous. No. Let’s have a mandatory sex holiday in the butt ass middle of winter when I’m as white as humanly possible, as fat as usual and as hairy as a Yeti. Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

I called up my girl “Tori” (names changed to protect the not so innocent). As luck would have it, she needed to exchange a recent purchase at the dirty store. Seems edible panties contain carbs. Who knew? Off we went. Whilst I hadn’t envisioned my first post-op outing to include whips and anal lube, it beat the fat train. I worried my boss would see me and think, “She can’t come to work but she can shop at the dirty store?” Yes. That’s the simple answer. One doesn’t call upon the use of too many brain cells in such an environment. With the user friendly packaging these days, you barely have to string together a dirty thought before you see it being played out on some sort of random paraphernalia. It’s beyond frightening. And besides, if I happened to see her, I would surely black male her for silence. Job security. At the risk of repeating myself, I’ll say it again. God sends me the fatties. All types. Yes, even at the dirty store. (Random sign of the cross). Why? Surely the dirty store would be a “safe” place for me to hide in my delicate state? Apparently not. They find me. I often think I have “Fatdar.” My ass must send out some sort of fat sonar. Every once in a while the signal gets crossed. No good can come of this. Whilst I am a fan of all SIF, I have trouble relating to the overly confident fatty….for all the obvious reasons. I want to be one! It’s fucking fascinating!

“Tori” went to find her some carb friendly panties whilst I wandered about the cabin. I thought I might find some sort of fat friendly forever 2X apparel for the reveal. As luck would have it, they had a fatty section. Not a sole shopping over there. Shocker. Who’s coming to the dirty store for plus size puss apparel? Allow me to answer that, no one. No, you will find that crowd right smack in the middle of the size 2 lingerie. And so was I. I don’t appreciate random fat chatter whilst I am deep in thought (and squeezing all that is me into a thong requires deep thought). I had my eye on a bluish/green number that looked like it may accommodate the better part of my fat cells. And then she spoke. And no, I don’t make this shit up. I wish I was that funny. “My boyfriend doesn’t like it when I buy these outfits.” Silence (for all the obvious reasons). I refused to engage. Reasoning would not help this situation. This failed to stop her. “He says he doesn’t see the point when he’s going to take it off anyway.” *** Pause for random vomit as a result of said unsolicited visual*** I looked for “Tori.” She was being strapped into some sort of bondage bra. I felt the remaining discs in my back collapsing under pressure. It was too soon for such an outing. I was being “fatcousted” and no one was there to save me. “Wow, that’s awesome.” That’s all I had. No more. No less. I high-tailed it to the fitting room. I felt safe. Deep breath. Now on to bigger challenges…getting my fat ass into the bluish/green number without the assistance of the dirty store employee.

Whilst I could still breathe, I poked my head outside the fitting room and called for “Tori.” You’ll recall I said “Tori.” Not my new overly confident SIF stalker. And you can just imagine who answered the call. Yes. “Wow, I’ve never been that skinny. I was 250lbs BEFORE I had my first kid.” Thank you for the random over share. I retreated to the confines of the fitting room for air. Why? Isn’t there an unwritten rule pertaining to fat and silence? Apparently not. I listened to her go on and on whilst I chiseled myself out of what would be my new reveal outfit. Not bcs it made me look thin or covered all that is me. For the very reason that I had to get out of there! The visions of that Stallion riding her show pony side saddle whilst the dirty outfit went flying about was just too much for this fatty to bear! When I came out, “Tori” was waiting for me. I gave her “the eye.” Being a SIF, she knew exactly what that “eye” meant. Straight to the anal lube and cock rings. No, I’m not into that shit. I sure could be. I was traumatized. Stay with me. It was a diversion. Surely overly confident fatty wouldn’t follow us down such a scandalous path. Of course she would. There was no stopping her. The visions in my head were about to cause random seizing. We had to get out of there. In a last ditch effort to lose said overly confident fatty, I grabbed a self-masturbation kit…for men. I was trying to send a message. She gave me that look…“You poor thing. Your boyfriend won’t sleep with you.” Delusional. I shot back. “No, it’s a gift. For yours.” Touché overly confident fatty. Touché.

All Aboard...The Fat Train

Was it not enough to miss every remaining acceptable eating holiday in 2013? Apparently not. Let’s throw in New Year’s Eve (most acceptable drinking holiday ever) and New Year’s Day (the start of “New Me 2014”…who let’s face it looks just like “Old Me 2013” but that’s beside the point)! And just for shits and giggles, let’s add Valentine’s Day (guaranteed sex holiday) and call it the icing on the cake. Because we all know how much I love cake! Yes, my fellow fatties, my Fat Back took all that and more. Most notably my ability to run and consume endless calories thus supporting my “binge eating as a sport” capability. I must say, the SIF surrounded me with love (and food) during my darkest hours. Of course they did. Watching me get fat is a sport in and of itself. One best played with as many fat cells as possible. There were casseroles, cakes, cookies…a full on Fat Train with a whole lotta cabooses to ensure its success! I had no knowledge said trains even existed. Had I known random women would log onto Fatbook and sign up to feed me for weeks on end, I clearly would have thrown myself down the stairs years ago! If there’s one thing you should know about me (commit this to memory post haste)…I can spot fatbotage a mile away. I didn’t fall off the fat wagon yesterday sisters! Queen Fatty knows the deal….keep me fed, fat and flat on my fat back under the cover of helping a fellow fallen fatty all whilst sucking down protein shakes, joining Weight Watchers and lunging your way to “New You 2014.” Consider this train derailed sisters!

Pray you never eat so much you rupture a disc. While not the official diagnosis, I have yet to meet an MD knowledgeable in SIF. That takes like 30 more years of school. Let’s just call me a Fatxpert and be done with it. SIF, MD. I like it. Years of caloric catastrophes quietly collaborating brought down this SIF. Or perhaps it was just years of eating cheap grocery store birthday cake. Who knows? Was it worth it? Yes. I would die for that cheap, spongy lusciousness laced with colored crack handmade by the highly trained employees of Food Lion. Don’t judge me. We all have chicken bones in our closet. You might wanna close your door…a little tighter please. Ughum. In any event, something had to be done. A broken down fatty quickly turns to lard when left unattended. So I called in somebody who knew something about Fat Back. I had to wait a month for an appointment which was less than ideal. The pain was tolerable. The “no drinking” was not, however. I thought myself to be a casual drinker. I often lied on medical forms to arrive at this conclusion. “Do you have more than 3 drinks a week?” Which week? Clearly there were weeks that required more than 3 drinks…as in most of them. But who’s counting. Who are these people that insist on counting drinks and making me feel like 3 bottles of wine a night equals a problem?! Anyway, I’m bad at math…as evidenced by my size. I’ve simply checked “No” for the past 25 years. If Mother does the math, she’ll realize I’ve been drinking since I was 16. It’s a lie. 12 is the number. I was an old 12. Quit judging. Where was I? Oh yeah my drinking problem. I couldn’t drink bcs the pain meds were the only thing keeping me from eating small children. Pain meds are not my friend. I, unlike the rest of the population, do not enjoy a “pill high.” Apparently my addictive personality only applies to things that bring me pain…like binge eating and shopping at Forever 21. So, for one month, whilst I waited to see Dr. Fat, I watched everyone around me whoop it up while I meandered about like Pookie from New Jack City…except the only thing calling me were the SIF…to bring more food. Hussies.

Finally. Time to see Dr. Fat. Whilst waiting in the lobby, I dare say I had a seizure. No, not the pain meds. The chairs. They had weight limits. Have you ever heard of such a thing?! Posted right there above each chair was its very own pain threshold! As previously discussed, math is not my strong suit. Each individual chair would hold 350lbs. The double chairs 500lbs. I called upon my mad “Goesintas” skills to make sense of the numbers. I hadn’t weighed myself in a while. Who am I kidding? I get on that damn scale every day! I swear that thing is broken. It only moves in one direction….North. Worst case I could sit in a double, put my purse on the other chair and pretend someone was sitting there. I knew for sure I wasn’t pushing 500lbs…yet. Evil nurse summoned me. I had my posse with me. She wasn’t quite prepared for all that is me and my people. I’m kind of a big deal. Noted. I wasn’t prepared for her to run mad fat tricks and ask me to step on the scale in the presence of said others. Who weighs someone fully clothed? A skinny nurse with no inner fatty to speak of. That’s who. Do you have any idea how much my jeans weigh? Yeah, I thought not! I made the “others” turn their backs. No need for anyone else to fall down and hurt their back. I knew what the Dr. would say. Bla bla I need to cut you. Fine. While you’re at it, shave a little off the sides and find the scraps a new home in what should be my boobs had I come from a stronger gene pool. Thanks again Mother. And she wonders why I started drinking at 12? Not much to do when you are flat chested and fat. Buying clothing is out. Boyfriends out. Drinking…in. I digress. Dr. Fat said I had crabs. Yes, crabs. No, not the kind you get from being a big fat whore. The kind you get from being a big fat fatty. He likened my missing disc matter to crab meat. Yum. I love crab meat. He was making me hungry and I didn’t appreciate it one bit. Apparently said crab meat was running amuck in my back after escaping the disc it belonged to. Awesome. Troubled, runaway crabs on the loose in my back causing me great pain…and a club foot. Not attractive. Dr. Fat would remove the venereal crabs from my back and make me virginal again. Um, ok.

You know what surgery means right? No eating from midnight on the night before the slice and dice. Cruel and inhumane treatment is what it is. I stayed up until the very stroke of midnight eating and drinking everything in sight. I started having visions of not being able to empty my stomach in time for surgery. Everything from losing my bowels on the operating table to death, crossed my mind. Nothing a little valium wouldn’t cure. Luckily said fat removal was early in the morning. Watching people eat is hard enough on a good day much less on a day when I cannot partake in the madness. First stop…surgical prep. Why? Why did the nice young man insist on weighing me 2 seconds into our meet and greet. My sweet was right there with me. Imagine his dismay when he realized I’m not actually the 120lb petite young thing he thought me to be. I’m an overweight 41 year old with crabs who ruptured a disc eating cheap grocery store birthday cake. That wouldn’t even fit on my tombstone! Too big to die… that’s me. Little did I know this nurse had a surprise in store for me…kilograms. They weighed me in Kilos. Yes Lawd! I knew there was a reason I wasn’t a nurse. I can barely get through the “goesintas” much less the conversion from pounds to kilos. However, I noted this trick as one I could use to my fatvantage. As soon as I can get a grip on the math I’m going to start reciting my weight in kilos….except I’m not going to verbalize the kilos part. It’s pure genius. I grilled everyone who attempted to touch me. I wanted them to know I was a very informed patient. I watch Dateline. I know what goes down in these places. After being reassured they would know if I was actually awake whilst under sedation, I allowed them to give me some of the good stuff. Had I thought it through, I would have anticipated this would lead to me revealing my food aggressive nature and aforementioned drinking problem. Nurse: “I’m going to wrap you up like a burrito.” SIF: “I love burritos.” Really? Was that necessary? Apparently. Nurse: “What’s your pick of poison?” SIF: “Shiraz…or Pinot Noir. Russian River Valley preferably.” Can you say lush? Perhaps. I cannot be held responsible for the things said under pre-op sedation. If you want me to lie, make sure I’m awake. I’m quite sure I went on to reveal more, however my witnesses were asked to leave the room. I forgot to ask the Dr. for the crabmeat. What? That shits expensive. If I can harvest it from within and save a buck, I will. A Frugal Fatty is a Forever fatty. I got robbed. That’s all I have to say about that. They stole my meat never to be seen or heard from again. And my boobs were no bigger to account for the loss. There would be no post –op grazing as I had imagined. Beef broth and OJ does not a meal make. I just hit the pain button and pretended I was at the McDonald’s drive through. Much to my dismay, no one showed to supersize my broth.

I was sure the weeks that followed would bring massive weight loss and a whole new me. I would be drugged and in pain. Who could eat under those conditions? Um me. I prayed food would appear dead to me for the first time…ever. People would stop me in the streets to tell me how great I looked. I would never fess up to surgery and drugs. Hell no! I’d just been watching what I ate and exercising. Oh wait, I couldn’t move around very well so that would back fire. Ok…I was hit by a car whilst running and had to be placed in a coma for weeks whilst I healed. That would account for my time away from the general population, random weight loss and score me the ever popular sympathy vote. It might have worked….if “The Train” hadn’t showed up. Destination…fat.