Sunday, April 27, 2014


This blog is dedicated to Tara & Mark... May you turn water to wine in Heaven until we meet again. RIP !

Monday, April 21, 2014

Fatty Fo' Life

I’m 2 weeks into a life sentence. “New Me” would like a conjugal visit from "Old me"….post haste. I would kill for a fry. I would dip said fry in ranch dressing and lick it like it was Brad Pitt’s….fry. Probably the reason I’m on diet death row. I’m a lying, cheating fat whore of an over eater. It’s less than attractive. Confession Time: “Forgive me Fatties for I have sinned…. it’s been….um never….since my last confession. I eat the food stuck in between my teeth…and not always immediately. I am a big fan of marination.”*** I’m not sure that’s a word…marination. I’m sure it’s in the ghetto dictionary. The act of marinating…marination. It’s a verb. I enjoy breaking verbs. Back to the confession*** “I don’t floss….I consume. 1 out of 9 dentists recommends it. In any event, please give me my fatty penance. Its snack time and I’m food aggressive. Amen.” There’s a separate Jesus for Fatties. I saw him once…at Krispy Kreme…he appeared just beneath the “Hot and Now” sign. Had I not been in a full on sprint for a cruller, I might have snapped a picture or called Dateline or something. I digress

I’m losing weight. You should stop reading my blog immediately if not sooner. I am no longer one of you. Yeah whatever. I’m a fatty through and through. I bleed Crisco. I miss Crisco. So many uses. None of which involves sunbathing… Mother. Yes, she did that. And yes, she stuck her tongue on a frozen railing and was amazed to learn it actually stuck. Perhaps she was hungry. She’s touched…what can I say? She’s the original SIF…show some respect. They weren’t running the short bus back then. I don’t even think they had cars. I can’t be sure. In any event, I come from a gene pool lacking in…skinny jeans. I think about food ALL THE TIME. And no not bcs I’m on a diet. Because I’m a SIF…duh. Fat Back keeps me from running….and losing weight and being freaky and marrying Brad Pitt. Fuckin back. I walk. I’m a walker. Said with the same enthusiasm I reserve for dieting. Walking leaves too much time for thinking. I think about food. This should not be shocking. I just said it two sentences ago. Stay with me. Whilst walking to burn calories, I often fantasize about the next round of calories. “What will I eat when I’m done with this stupid walking shit? Did I burn enough calories to eat ranch? Did my pulse move one beat beyond the diet pill I just burped up? “These cannot be normal thoughts. And by normal I mean... I don’t know what I mean. I’m not in fact normal and I'm quite sure I wouldn’t recognize it if I saw it. There must be people out there who take this shit seriously… exercising to be healthy n all. I think they call them annoying.

I’m swallowing all sorts of pills and powders assuring me an early release from the pen. I’m convinced they do nothing more than make me bitter my fat ass had to pay for potions to guilt me into submission as I am a frugal fatty who doesn’t waste money on anything that doesn’t end in…donut (yes, that was a run on sentence). I’d buy a dozen in a hot minute, eat 4 and throw out the rest swearing it was my last affair with sugar. Lying whore (please refer to paragraph one for previous admission). But don’t ask me to pay for anything that sounds like diet and not expect me to jump on the scale every 2 hours to assess my return on investment! I may not have formal learnin skills…but I gots mad fat skills…which is marketable to exactly no one other than the SIF reading this blog. I thank you for that. I’ll be taking up a collection pending my early release. I would like to mix my potions with Coke…and not the kind you snort. I think that’s already in there. Cola. They frown upon that. Fuckers. Mix it with water. Coincidently that’s also how I wash my ass. Do you see the connection? Shit. There…I made it for you. I’m realizing I eat for just about any reason. Because I woke up. Because it’s noon. Because I smelled something good. Because someone said the word “Lunch” (makes me salivate every time). I fear I am a full on food addict. Yes, I’m the Pookie of Popeyes. I will stab you with a fork for fried chicken. And don’t line jump at the Long John Silvers. I most likely had to travel well out of my way for LJS…I will cut chu. Thank you Mother for not only taking me there every Saturday but for insisting on extra crunchies. Nothing spells mother of the year like extra morsels of saturated fat for your young.

Time to kill the overly violent tone with some good news. I’m down 6 pounds. 6 pounds in 2 weeks does not a Jenny Craig endorsement make. Who cares… I’m not on Jenny Craig. She’s not my type. And I prefer the bottom. No fries in 2 weeks. I’m surprised they haven’t had to shoot me up with some sort of anti-seizure medication. Perhaps my love of fries has been overshadowed by my love of wearing shorts in the summer. Mine are currently a shad snug. Ok snug might be a little lenient…camel toe would be the appropriate visual. Camels belong in the dessert…not my panties. In any event, I do miss a fry. *** Whilst I am typing away trying to earn a living as a creative genius who makes exactly no money amusing you…my better half is out in the living room defiling a bunny rabbit. Oh he thinks he can hide the random snacking from me…not so much. I’m on a diet for the love of God! I can hear the crackle of a chocolate bunny being undressed from its tinfoil wrapping and the nibbling of little chocolate ears a mile away!!!!! I think I just had a moment….back to the diet***I’m not sure what’s worse…the no eating or the no drinking. I love to eat…I love to drink. I have no outlet for my stress. No running…no drinking…no eating. I’m clearly going to die.

I’m out of the cleanse phase. I’m not exactly sure what happened in the cleanse phase. I thought I would be shitting or shaking or sweating or something. Nope. Just uneventfully hungry. I’m now in the Slim phase. I'm hopeful for some additional excitement. I’m drinking fiber…like old people who can’t shit. Except I shit on the regular. I can’t imagine how I could be any more attractive than I am at this very moment. I refuse to weigh myself this week. Aunt Flo is visiting. I’ve never once invited that bitch into my life yet she shows up, every month bringing all her baggage. I should just lock the door. I don’t like being tricked. If I gain 1 pound, I’m bound to make a mad dash for a #2. Might not mix well with the fiber. 13 days might be the longest I’ve stuck with a diet. Hell, Tuesday was my record up until now. I’m not going to say I haven’t cheated…we covered this…lying whore n all. For the most part I’m behaving. Don’t worry…I’m not buying into that crazy bullshit about replacing fries with sweet potato fries and apples make a great snack. To that I say…screw you! The only kind of fry I eat comes from a white potato… if that makes me a fry racist…so be it. The only apple I’m eating is draped in a luscious fritter coating. I love apple fritters… thank you for that as well…mother. All that missing change from your purse…yup I took it. Had to have the fritters you introduced me to. Where was CPS when I was growing up? They should have carted her off…Crisco tan and all! I think I’ll go back to my fatty ways and spend my remaining time blaming Mother. I’m innocent.

Monday, April 7, 2014


Fat Back is killing me. I need to be mobile in a way that doesn’t involve driving to McDonald’s. I was already really good at that. In fact, should the Olympic Committee choose to add a “fastest time from drive-thru to consumption” category, I’d win hands down. Add in the extra measures taken to avoid being tagged as a repeat offender and I’m qualifying as the world’s greatest athlete… ever. Its borderline crude how quickly I can inhale a number 2. My only issue to date… sesame seeds. No one likes sesame seeds in their Number 2. Or maybe they do? I find it highly evidentiary. I realize that word has more than enough syllables to trip up the common fatty. Fatsplanation…it’s hard to back up a trip to the gym with seeds in your teeth …and the remnants of a Number 2 on your face. Evidentiary. You’re missing my point…or maybe I’m missing my point. I can’t be sure I have a point. My point is…I need to move around and my Fat Back is keeping me down. Two things stand out on my discharge paperwork: A. Take all drugs as prescribed. Check. 2. Have sex immediately. Check. Set aside all the sex and drugs…I’m bored. I find myself popping blackheads for entertainment. I can’t imagine this is attractive or calorically advantageous. Yet somewhere in SIF land, one of you is asking Siri how many calories are burned popping the imperfections on your pretty faces. Thank you for that. I’ll be coming out with apparel to match your sadistic behavior this fall. Watch for it.

When I’m bored and can’t go anywhere, I go on a diet. Why not? That counts as a” somewhere” here in SIF land. The tricky part …finding a diet I haven’t tried and or failed at. There’s always that fucking ridiculous notion of just eating healthy. Who comes up with this shit? Just eat healthy. Just stop drinking. Just quit smoking. Just work out more. OH….Ok! Just shut the fuck up! Pardon my Fatty French. Stupid people make me aggressive. I tried “Fatkins” a few weeks ago (key words being tried and weeks ago). I thought it to be a good fit for all that is me. Bacon, ranch, steak…clearly Dr. Atkins is a BIF. I’m not sure how anyone loses weight on this “diet.” Even I felt like a whore rolling in bacon grease after 1 week. I’m not suggesting that to be a bad thing. I just need something a tad more virginal to offset my already whorish nature. Perhaps it was the ban on wine? In fact it was. Don’t ask me to choose between wine and bacon. Life just isn’t tolerable when you’re sober and fat trying to be skinny. It’s maddening. However, there’s always turkey bacon. If you like that shit. Me…I went back to wine and chocolate. In fact, I didn’t waste time cooking bacon and waiting for dessert. Nope. I stocked up on chocolate bars infused with bacon. If you can’t smell it and you can’t find the wrapper…it never happened. It’s fucking genius. I am the self-sabotage queen of the world. Take that Dr. Fatkins.

So my friend Kaitie (her name has not been changed as I intend to publicly out her if I do not lose weight), pedals Advocare. I know. It sounds like a Geriatric rest home for people who shit their brains out. I’ll let you know if that comes to fruition. It’s a 24 day cleanse. Can you guess what my non-committal self likes about this right from jump? 24 days. I like to convince myself I can do anything for 24 days. That’s a stretch…and not the stretching I should be doing. Stay with me here…diet = lying to yourself. I’ve convinced “old me” I can be “New Me” in just 24 short days. Old me rode the short bus and falls for such nonsense. I intend to blame Katie when/if new me isn’t front and center in 24 days. I’m not sure she signed up for that. What are friends for? I can’t be sure. I don’t presently have any. Unless you count the Fat Train Fatties. Exactly my point. I will allow her a shameless plug before I throw her under the short bus. Should you care to join in the madness, you can check out Katie’s site at Send me a meal bar. I’m hungry. You’ll be most pleased to know my kit came over a week ago. I started today. What? It came on a Tuesday. SIF Rule #4567…don’t start dieting on any day other than Monday. It can wait. I think I may have gained 20lbs last week. It’s not easy getting in a case of wine and all the contraband on my list in less than 7 days. I have yet to find a diet that allows for the unlimited consumption of fried chicken and macaroni and cheese. I just wiped drool off the monitor, fyi. This my sisters is one of the side effects of dieting. Drool. Much like anal leakage, it’s not socially acceptable. 23 more days. The plan seems fairly normal in that you can eat normal food. That is unless you’re not normal. Normal food makes me hungry. And cranky. And gassy. 23 more days. I’ve been peeing a lot. Random overshare.

As Queen Fatty it is my duty to test out any possible solution to binge eating as a sport. Consider it cross training if you will. Someone once told me skinny looks better than fat tastes. Spoken like someone who eats turkey bacon and jogs. I’m a full on fatty with a closet full of new clothes for someone who doesn’t in fact exist. Unless my inner fatty turns out to be a size 2 with a fetish for 70’s clothes, I’m screwed. Will I ever accept Forever 2X as my own? Will the geriatric shitting diet reveal a whole new me? Could I really compete in the Fatlympics? Do people really eat Chia Seeds? What is a Chia seed? I can’t be sure. The only thing I know for sure is that diet is a dirty word. I’m rolling in shit to prove to the SIF you can wear a bikini with a scratch and dent ass. The things I do for you. Sisters….I don’t claim to be all knowing. If your inner fatty has found her way to the pound, please advise. I may be in the market for a stray.