Suckin Scale

I'm hot off a visit with the original SIF, my Mother. As you can imagine... she supplied me with endless material. It always makes me question when my real genes will kick in thus spawning her Mini Me. It's very Sci-Fi and quite frightening. Where to begin? The airport. My arrival always follows the same pattern. I deplane, grab the bags I paid an additional $400 to bring and then am attacked by a woman with spikey "blond" hair screaming "There's my baby!" Here are I am Mother...all 39 years and 459lbs of me. I'd run from the nursery if I was her.  I feared random bystanders wondered how large ones vag would have to be to birth all of that is me. Large. Moving along... After the initial attack we did the meet and greet with the only sane member of my family...Dad. He waited in the car as to avoid another $400 in parking fees whilst I was being molested by the blond Yetti at baggage claim. He so gets the better end of the deal. Typically Dad says something like, "You look good Kelly." Look... he married my Mother...twice...he's sort of an expert in the "lying at the appropriate moment category" *random sign of the cross for forgiveness* Mother on the other hand could use some work in this department. As evidenced by past comments such as "You don't look that bad." Classic.

Fresh off a standard round of lies, I got in the car and hoped for more where that came from. Nothing. Silence. I should share a bit of news that may shock and amaze you...I've lost 12lbs. No, please...stop...you're embarrassing me. ( I hear virtual clapping...yes I do). In any event, one would think Mother, in all her diet obsessed ways would have taken notice and thrown me a bone (preferably with some grizzle left on it). But no. Instead I got, "So do you think you will get hit by that next hurricane....oh what's that doobie do's name...oh yeah "Kadia." Yes, she pronounced it that way. Just slay the Kings English Mother. Who needs "t's" when "d's" roll off the tongue like that. The woman did not birth me. I told her I was no Jim Cantore but given my track record of visits (9/11 & Princess Di's death) I'm sure something was bound to go down. And not on me unfortunately. Since the sight of me 12lbs lighter only seemed to spark tragic conversations, I threw the bone at her. "So Mother, you didn't tell me I looked like I lost weight." Fatty pause. "Oh yes Kelly you do. I can tell. I thought I told you that. Doesn't she look thinner Jerry?" Great...now we are involving the innocent in our web of lies.

At least I know where I get my keen ability to stretch the truth. What's 10lbs between me and the DMV? 10 would be fine. 50 is more accurate. And a few inches on the height. And perhaps the eye color I've always wanted. Let's put it this way...if I ever get pulled over on one of those rare occasions when I've had 15 glasses of wine (ughum), Officer such and such may have trouble connecting the dots between the super model stats on paper and the train wreck behind the wheel. We have to keep law enforcement on their toes. They are servants of the public after all. Just doing my duty. But you see I come by it honestly right?  Mother made her Olympic debut back peddling the rest of the trip home. She reminded me  she wouldn't be making the chocolate cake we discussed previously. It was her civic duty to rescind. I didn't need her stinking chocolate mayonnaise cake...I was headed to a baby shower. And you know what that means right? Cake, frosting, cookies and...babies. 3 outa 4 aint bad." Mama to be" supplied me with endless amounts of wine to keep me from discussing plans to sell my uterus on Ebay. What? People have needs.

Everything was going fine until the crossword puzzle. It's fair to say I'm not a game person... sober. Or drunk. Or...ever. So I decided a few glasses of Shiraz to dull the pain was a good idea. Glass size. I think that may have been the issue? Scene: Baby shower. Girls fluttering around feeling bellies telling stories of birthing and cervix and pain. Diaper cakes, rattles, baby powder...you know the drill. As you can imagine I was 1 fry short of a meltdown. A. I don't get sex so none of this makes any sense to me. B. The last shower I attended was me naked with a bar of Coast. C. I'm a big fan of the spiked sherbet punch. In any event, glass size. That was the issue. The lovely Mother to be....who you wouldn't know was prego if she turned 180 degrees hooked me up with a 40oz wine glass. Love her. It always sounds like a good idea unless I'm involved. Take 1 part over tired, 2 parts fat aggressive and throw in equal parts food aggressive. What do you get....Aunt SIF and the dirty crossword.

In my defense...the rules were as follows: Don't start until we say so and the first one done wins. I feared I'd win an embryo so my plan was to stay silent. Not so much. I am competitive. Problem being...not so well versed in baby lingo. When in Rome....get a nice hotel room and ring George Clooney. That's what I always say. My strategy was to answer all of the ones I knew and then cheat off someone quicker than they could cheat off me thus scoring the prize. Very wholesome. Here's where the ladies at my table got stumped: Daddy's best friend. Interesting. I got that one right off the bat. There was lots of "Oh I know it's Grandma. No no it's Mommy." Duh. Amateurs.  Hooker. That's Daddy's best friend. It fit in every possible way. Hey I watch Jerry Springer for an educational moments just like this. Perhaps I should have said it softly? Or not at all? Can't be sure. It fit, I said it....game over. Don't think I'll be getting an invite to the next one. I'm worldly and honest. That Your Honor is self defense.

My strategy for the rest of the week was to be as lazy as I could possibly be in order to keep my caloric requirements down. Do not try this at home.  One day I thought it would be adventurous to take Mother and my Aunt on a 3 hour walk. Uphill. Think she'll remember to tell me how thin I look next time? I think so. Half way down the hill....MIF came out. "You know Kelly, we can all go eat after this. We will be burning calories for hours" SIF logic at it's best.  I know what you are thinking...she's right? If you don't read between the lines, yes she is correct. However, this woman raised me. I know the agenda. This walk was good for a week of non stop binging. I humored her with a nice fatty lunch for a job well done. Before the last chip grazed my lips it came to pass..."We should go get ice cream. We earned it. And we are still burning." I dare say the only time I burned more than this 3 hour walk was that trip to the gyno involving a one night stand and not enough information. However, I humored her and ate the ice cream. It was easier than listening to the burning agenda for the next 3 days.  Of course Dad wanted ice cream later that night. So I volunteered to walk up there with him. Before you get judgie...it wasn't to get another cone and blame the burn. My flame was out. I like to hear my Dad order a baby cone and ask for the senior discount. The look is priceless. Then he scrapes half the ice cream off the cone and feeds it to lawn. *Random sign of the cross.* I guess the question is...where are these genes in me? Nowhere to be found. Only one reason...fraud. Mother...start talkin

I leave you with a little story about a scale. Mothers scale. She controls the over under on this thing better than a Vegas bookie. So I step on the scale 2 days into my vacation. When I left home my scale said I was down 6 lbs. Mothers said 10. Of course it did. The oldest trick in the book. 2 days later I tried again. Down 14lbs. God this woman is good. She had to be sneaking down in the middle of the night rigging the odds in my favor. It was her way of saying I'm sorry for the airport incident. I brought this matter to the attention of my Father and my Aunt. My Dad of course knew what was going on  and simply smirked. My Aunt offered her scales which she claimed were in sync with the doctors. Excellent. I borrowed the scale. Why I didn't see this coming is beyond me. According to her scales I was 6lbs heavier than Mothers. Of course I was. I shared this tidbit with my bookie and you can only imagine what ensued. "What do you mean? I'm actually 6lbs heavier than I thought? How can that be right? I calculated those suckin points to a "T?" Well I am just depressed." Dad chimed in with logic. "If your scale said you weighed X when you started and now it says something else that means you lost that much weight right?" Oh Father, where art thou SIFness? Where was he going with this? We all know what comes next right? "Well that just pisses me off bcs I think I weigh one thing and I am 6 suckin pounds more than I thought." Madness...fucking madness.

The next day my other Aunt stopped by. I told her about the scale incident. She offered up her scales which she claimed were 3 lbs less than my other Aunts and in line with her doctors. Do you see a pattern here? The gene pool originated at a nuclear reactor! Dad chimed in and suggested we just stop weighing ourselves for now. Excellent plan. Mother sulked for days. That is until I got home, weighed myself on my scale which jived with her scale and counteracted the other scales....times 2 carry the four. She was most pleased. "I knew it was right. I could tell you lost weight the moment I saw you."  Apparently Heaven put up the "No Vacancy" sign bcs Mother is surely headed south for the winter!!!

New Blog Coming soon!

Check back on Sunday for the latest fat clusters....

Fategory 3

In case you are wondering...I am sitting in the strike zone of hurricane Irene. What does that mean for this SIF? Chocolate chip cookies, chili, bacon & eggs, Mimosas and anything else I can get my hands on. SIF Rule #2345: All diets are off in a time of natural disaster. If I die, don't let my husband get the cookies. They should go to someone who will actually gain weight eating them. SIF out for now...

Fatty Goes to Bootcamp...

And not this fatty. The only orders I take involve food. That being said, one of our most faithful SIF has debriefed me on her latest attempt to quiet her inner fatty. For reasons of anonymity (and bcs she's so sweet) we shall refer to her from here on out as "Honey bun."  "Let sleeping fatties lie" is the moral of this story and it goes a little something like this...

Are you there God? It's me Fatty. Clearly calling in a favor before heading off to Fat Camp sounded like a good plan. "Pack a duffel with a change of clothes, a towel and some water," said the evil short man tasked with morphing muffins into muscle. Seemed reasonable. Honey bun could barely sleep the night before fat camp. She could sleep when she was dead. Which would surely come to pass at some point in the next 6 weeks. Perhaps sooner rather than later. She followed shorties instructions to a "T." One large plush white hotel towel. Check. Comfy yet fashionably coordinated outfit to include matching shoes. Check. Gallon of water to replace years of pent up bodily fluids sure to be lost during impending demise. Check. 20lb bag of M&M's  for post workout carb loading/celebration of life. Check. Baby wipes to remove evidence of said chocolate from face. Check. Toothbrush to mask peanut breath from said short man trainer. Check. Hand sanitizer to remove any evidence of hanging with the 1/4 pound crowd. Check.  Inhaler for treatment of "Fatasthma." (that's asthma brought on by non fat like behavior). Check. Success was eminent.

5:00am. Whilst all the feral fatties were asleep in their beds with visions of chocolate covered sugar cones dancing in their heads....Honey bun was taking on "New Me Monday" for reals this time. She arrived at boot camp proudly carrying her satchel of goods. "Can you run from here to there" asked the short man. "Sure!" belted Honey bun. It was New Me Monday. Anything was possible. Off she went...running with her suitcase of sustenance  heading for her burial at sea. When she arrived on the beach one thing was clear...this was gonna get ugly fast. Everyone was broken into 3 groups: #1 Fat chicks, #2 Less Fat Chicks & #3 Why are you even here Chicks. Honey bun did not aspire to be anywhere but with her fellow SIF in group #1. Some,  less committed to the cause of fatness, strayed into Group #2. I have your names. You are officially out of the club. Take that and slap in on your fried Bologna biscuit. That's not a random reference by the way...Bo Jangles is runnin a special on um right now. Get chu one. Anyway. I don't appreciate you leavin Honey bun hanging. Moving right along...

The first day was all about breaking up fat clusters. Running, swimming, pulling...so many words ending in in "ING" and not one sounded remotely appealing. Sleeping, eating and binging. Now those were some "ING'ers" she could get down with. Focus! New me Monday means new "ING's." Honey bun made it through the first day with a smile on her face. I fear it was shock and awe but it appeared genuine nonetheless. She raced back to base camp to shit, shower, shave and show off what she had been hiding in the backpack. (Minus the unmentionables of course). She asked short trainer man, "So where do we get changed?" "Changed, " he said in his tiny wanna be 6 foot voice. "We don't get changed." "Then why on earth did you have me pack a bag?" A former SIF (who shall remain nameless bcs she has since moved to the other side *random sign of the cross* RIP) jumped in to save said short man from losing another inch at the hands of Honey bun. Tip: Never tell a woman who's taller than you (in his case any woman over the age of 2), bigger than you and who missed a meal to spend time with you...  there isn't a light at the end of the tunnel. No good can come of this. This is also applicable in sexual situations. No one like an aggressive feral fatty at 5am. No one. The transformed SIF removed Honey bun from the scene to let her in on a little secret. The backpack was to weigh you down. If there ever were an expert in weighting down it would be a SIF! The former SIF unzipped the backpack to see what she was dealing with. *Insert gasp & dropped jaw*. After removing said kitchen sink from backpack she advised Honey bun to pack a thong, a lace bra and some flip flops. If there wasn't a threat of actually having to wear this get up....it was all good. The minute she was asked to transform from SIF to beach hooker, the drop out rate for short mans boot camp would surely sky rocket. That is, unless, 6 weeks was enough time to transform from beer gut to beach slut. Who knows...it's possible.

If nothing else, the next 6 weeks proved one thing. The Devil is a short man sans manners. Day after day he would scream at Honey bun calling her by the wrong last name. In true SIF form she lashed out, challenging his every command. I for one, couldn't be more proud. "Wrong last name, get your ass to the ground. It's sticking too far up," screamed short man. "My ass doesn't go down any further than this dickhead. I'm laying flat on my stomach... which you might have noticed aint so flat!" screamed Honey bun. "Run faster Wrong Last Name." "I have asthma asshole. I'm going as fast as I can." As Honey bun lagged behind, short man forced the "Why are we even here" crowd to come back for her. He joked about his "No Twinkie Left Behind" policy. In an attempt to quiet his vertically challenged ass she looked around for something to stab him with. Better yet, why didn't she have duck tape in her back pack. She could have rallied the others and silenced him for good. Where was Little Debbie when she needed her. Clearly no one was stupid enough to leave her behind after a family beach outing. The birds would have devoured that bitch anyway. She pressed on.

As Fat Camp came to a close, everyone wore the same look on their face. Kool Aide Trance. Had a passer by been so bold as to sell Coca Cola and fried Twinkies on the beach, I fear the pledges would have gone AWOL.  Honey bun was just days from graduation. Time to order a shirt for the "let's look like we had fun and love each other" graduation picture. Although it had been 6 weeks of hell, Honey bun still carried the one thing that won't shrink with exercise..."The Twins." These DD's weren't going away for nobody. She instructed short man to order her an XL. When the time came to transform from plebe to graduate, Honey bun was shocked to received a L shirt. She questioned short man and he instructed her to wear the L. Beach Hooker it is. As she ran the last run to meet her classmates atop the hill where they would all graduate, she had much to be proud of. She remained true to her SIFness while accomplishing things no SIF should ever have to. She could run 3 miles, do 60 sit ups in 2 minutes and more importantly she had understanding of why short man acted the way he did around the fatties. Clearly he feared for his life. Roll him in some flour, fry him up and you have the makins for a tasty little appetizer. And he knew it. Of course he would taste a little better with some fat on him but she was trying to be more health conscience n all.

So what did Honey bun get for waking up at 5am two times a week for six week whilst listening to a short man call her by the wrong last name while simultaneously torturing her....a blinking bracelet. Yes, a blinking bracelet. You can't eat it. You can't hang it on the wall. You can't snuggle up with it at night. The only thing you can do with this bracelet that makes it worth it's weight in gold is to look at it and remember: FAT IS WHERE IT'S AT! NO MORE WALKING ON THE OTHER SIDE!  Nice job Honey bun!!

Fatties...we have a problem

My guest SIF blogger wasn't able to meet up on Friday. "Fatty goes to Bootcamp" will be up next week. As for this SIF...I'm down 6lbs. Clearly getting kicked out of the club. I'm sure it will find it's way back to me. It always does. Stay tuned!

Coming soon....

Yes....I am well aware it's been 1 month since I've blogged. I get it. However comma, I've had major drams. In any event, Friday I have a special interview in store. "Fatty Goes to Bootcamp" will be up by Sunday night. And it's not me. I know better. Nobody orders this fatty around. Unless they super sizin...oooohhhkay! Check back Sunday night!

Revelations: Fat.10:0

Recipe for fat: Equal part thinking about food to equal part thinking of ways to keep it off your ass. Just like Grandma use to say, a pinch of this and a pinch of that. The part she left out...how much would be left to pinch when it was done. So I spend my days looking for ways to lose a little here and there. Let's face it, if it came off as quickly as it went on, I would have nothing to blog about and you would all die cold and lonely people. Yes, you would. In my quest to lose a quick 10lbs I'm left with a few choices. Stop eating and spend 23 of 24 hours at the gym. Scratch that. Go on random no carb, sugar or anything fun diet whilst holed up in the house until I look like Posh Spice. Scratch that. That bitch thinks jello is a food group. However comma, she is banging Beckham. Ok, I'll rethink that one. In any event, I found an easy way to lose 10 pounds. Ready for this? It could possibly revolutionize your life. Go to the beach...

Normally I wouldn't recommend something so potentially traumatic, however, given the speed of the results and the sheer simplicity of the task, this is now my go to plan for losing a quick 10. Step 1: put on a bikini. Yes, a bikini. You are about to be 10lbs lighter. I can't think of a better way to celebrate. Step 2: Park your big ass right next to an over sized family of 4. Step 3: Enjoy. You just lost 10lbs. I literally tested this theory today. Alone at the beach in my bikini I was a bit scared and quite large. I knew there was high potential for a 1/4 Pounder to plop down beside me and send this little experiment south, very quickly. However, my keen attention to detail assured my success. Although it was 9:15am, I noticed some key signs fatties were looming: Several cheap umbrellas strategically placed too close to each other far too early in the morning. Coverage issues. I can spot them a mile away. 1 umbrella won't cover 550lbs...I think they are rated to 120lbs actually. So the fatties stack them 1 on top of the other like a large crowd is about to take over...and they are. However, 4 doesn't qualify as a crowd. Perhaps in pounds. I'll give you that. Next, the beach chairs. While appearing new, you can clearly see stress fractures in the joints and large ass pockets in the seats that dip down to the sand. Clearly a sign something much too large has taken up residence. I fear we don't have Yetti's in these parts so the only conclusion....a fatty. Last but not least..the coolers arrive before the fat. Lots of coolers. Coolers with food stains. Fatties can't always be OCD like me. It takes all kinds people. Again, one might think a large family was on the way. They are. Large in volume. Not quantity.

As soon as their ass hit the sand, mine felt a shad lighter. Best I can figure to the tune of 10lbs. Am I mean? Yes. Am I fat? Yes. They cancel each other out so can it. This revelation could quickly tie into another...if I do say so myself. Fat IS a family affair. One by one they showed up to the dinner table (aka the beach) fatter than the next. The poor 1 year looked more like an afternoon snack than part of the clan. I feared for her safety around FGLH (Fat Girl Lunch Hour for you newbies to SIF).  I would have called CPS but I was getting hungry myself and I was hoping they were sharers. So what to do after losing 10 lbs in a minute? Read. Not some trashy novel or God forbid something that might actually learn me something. I prefer good wholesome periodicals. So I was reading People Magazine and low and behold my favorite tidbit was included in this issue. How the stars lose weight.

I know what you are thinking. They buy their way to thin. Yes, yes they do. I'm trying to figure out how much they want for Brad Pitt. I've been saving my pennies for the day he realizes fat is where it's at. Skin and bones Jolie aint long for it if I do say so myself. I skipped over the stars who graze in pastures and do sun salutations at daybreak. Whatever. If I'm getting down on my hands and knees to eat anything it won't be grass. I told you before I don't swing that way. 100% meat eater thank you. And I refuse to salute anything that promotes me wearing a bikini. So that prettymuch leaves the salmon eaters, the non eaters and Paris Hilton. What on earth could she possibly be eating other than....well I'm just sayin. People talk. In any event, she had some great advice that I have decided to share with the SIF. I can't be sure why someone hasn't asked her on the Today Show or better yet put her in a Jenny Craig commercial. Got your big girl ears on? Paris said one day she realized she had gained 10lbs bringing her weight to an astonishing 120lbs. *random sign of the cross.* She blamed her boyfriend, which you know I love. A little game of "pass the fat" never hurt anyone. Her solution to this epic crisis, transform the nightclub at her house into a gym. Why haven't I thought of this? Instead of having my friends over for "club night" every Sat, we replace the turn table with a treadmill. My husband isn't really all about it. I'm not sure if it's bcs he's attached to the nightclub or bcs he doesn't know we have one. Guys are so dumb.

What can we conclude from these revelations? While there isn't an "I" in team, there is one on opportunity. And I an opportunist. If I have the opportunity to lose a quick 10 by standing next to your fat ass, I will. However, If I catch you doing it to me, I will bitch slap you. If I have the opportunity to pay for sex with Brad Pitt, I will empty the piggy bank. And the joint checking for that matter. Won't be needing it for long. If I have the opportunity to eat grass, I will starve until I nice hunk of meat presents itself. If I have the opportunity to turn my nightclub into a gym, I will dance on the treadmill, under the disco ball whilst drinking a PBR and eating a PBJ. Pure class. And this my friends is the gospel according to THIS SIF. And they all said, "Dig in!"

New Blog...this week..

Hide the children...

Captains Log Book....

Star date...O' Fat 30. Try as I might to capture random fat cells and share them with you, it's been too long. Let's start with a bit of recent trauma, shall we? Scene: Random mandatory fun in the form of a public birthday party for the town I live in. Translation...cake. Everyone knows how I feel about cake. In particular cheap over frosted grocery store birthday cake. Nectar of the Gods. One would assume if it was one's 50th birthday and that "one" was a large town... that would equate to a large birthday cake  in need of consumption . Not so much. Instead, a room of strangers and random pint sized desserts. Tolerable but not ideal. Filling the sugar tank would require multiple trips to the fakey dessert bar. If you think I'm about to share some dramatic story about getting busted on my 18th trip to the banana cream pie table...think again. This trauma involves "Coochie." And it wasn't my coochie, for the record.

My friend Trish says people seek me out in order to provide me with material to share with the world. Normally I wouldn't subscribe to such a theory, however after tallying up the number of random strangers who approach me, over share and overwhelm me with amazing stories, I'm forced to agree with her. Plus she likes Def Leppard so that makes her an"Oz" like expert in my book. Anywho, Coochie. And I know exactly what you are thinking. No I did not flash my beav for cake. Only bcs there wasn't any cake. We covered this. Let's be clear, I would bare all for cake. In any event,  I give you Coochie. The real deal coolest Coochie I've ever seen. And I don't go around looking for them, fyi. I told you I prefer Dick to Harry. Stay with me. So I walk up to this woman I think I know. Thinking always gets me in trouble. Most people who aren't sure of something ask others and cease to approach. Not me. When I want something I tend to bum rush and tackle. I'm food aggressive. It spills over into other areas of my life from time to time.  Not ideal. So I approach said 75yearoldish woman, looking her up and down to reassure myself she is the lady from my neighborhood. Before I can get the words out of my mouth, she smiles and grabs my hair. Interesting. Never had that happen before. Let's see...I'm fairly confident I'm not sleeping with her husband, I don't have ghetto extensions or any extensions for that matter and I'm not into kinky shit with old ladies so why is this hussy pulling on my weave? Hmmm. She screams with excitement, "It's you! You have hair!" Both of these statements appear to be accurate and bizarre all at the same time. I reply, "Of course I have hair!" She says, "Oh bcs Linda and I see you running in the neighborhood and we thought you had cancer." However, my husband said he thinks you have hip issues bcs you limp when you run."    Floored.

Stopped in my tracks, speechless for the 1st time in my life and wondering how 2 people with over 140 years between them have decided I have an incurable disease and bad hips...I change up the flow. "So what is your name anyway?" "Coochie." "Excuse me?" Did this woman just call me a pussy and cover it up with a youthful quip? "Coochie." Nice. Not only did she project the word "Coochie" across a room of over 100 people...she did it twice. Somehow I was getting blamed for this and for the first time ever...IT WASN'T MY FAULT! Hell I was just diagnosed terminal by an old vajayjay, her walking buddy Linda and her decrepit husband! That's a fine how do ya do! Coochie went on to explain that she sees me running in the morning in my "do rag." She thought I was wearing it bcs I had cancer. Clearly the only conclusion a civilized senior citizen would draw. When she shared this information with her husband he informed her of my limp like run. Instead of revealing my true SIF identity thus explaining the perplexing issues surrounding my very existence, I acknowledged stage 27 Beaver Cancer and how it caused my hips to give out. I'm not sure she even heard or saw me.I fear she lives in an alternate universe. But that hussy can yank on some hair! After sharing my new Coochie with friends, we learned she is also a raging alcoholic! The woman gives out jello shooters at Halloween and drinks in her garage! If loving Coochie makes me a lesbian...I am a full on Lickalotapuss. Love me some Cooch!

You think I make this shit up? I wish. I am the Larry David of the Outer Banks. Just the other day I was walking my dog and another one of my neighbors decided to "open mouth insert foot." I know what you are thinking...how can you handle all this running and walking with Beaver Cancer and a bad hip? Dedication. My beaver may have had a chance for survival had it been exercised. That just wasn't in the cards. I have accepted my fate as have my neighbors. Scandal. So...back to dog walking. There's a very nice lady who walks her dog at O' Dark 30 every morning. We usually exchange words about the weather and whatever else rolls off my halitosis laden tongue at that hour. On this particular day, I passed her, making a joke about her dog coming to me instead of to my dog. To this she responds "Yup..goes straight for the big girl." I'm sorry? I had to stop my right roundhouse from engaging and kicking her ass. I instantly convinced myself  "Big Girl" meant "human adult like person" and smiled. I didn't get the chance to tell her I gained all my weight after contracting beaver cancer. That's how you get it you know...contraction. Some dumb guy sticking his dick all over town and Viola...beaver cancer/bad hips. I was sure the rumors had spread through the hood after Coochie got a hold of me. Apparently not. Apparently getting up and running at 530am, walking your dog and boxing at night still qualifies you to be code named "Big Girl." I now carry arsenic dog treats for her pooch. I got your big girl.

I'm starting to think it's not just the neighborhood I live in. I fear this madness is spreading to other neighborhoods in my town. I was having lunch with my friend Sharon who lives a few subdivisions down. She informed me her husband was bitten by a tick and is now allergic to meat. Fuckin tick! Now the vermin of the world are working against the SIF/BIF? What up with that? Bugs that bite you and make you allergic to food? I would like to request a giant chunk be taken out of my ass by whatever specimen makes me allergic to fried chicken and birthday cake! Come quick! While I feared the end of the world crowd to be militant and over jealous...this revelation has got me thinking. Bugs that make you unable to eat? It's very
Sci-Fi. And I don't appreciate it one bit. I'm sure Coochie knows all about them. She's probably breeding them in her garage whilst she knocks back a 12 pack and fifth of Vodka. I think when I see her next I will let my hair down and bare my Coochie. What will the neighbors say? "Oh that's just the girl with Beaver Cancer and a bad hip," I fear. Anything is better than being called fat.

Worst SIF Ever..

Yeh that's me. I have so much fat to share and not enough time! However comma, a new blog with some serious fat cells will be posted Wednesday night. Put down your drumsticks and wipe away the grease sisters...Mama is ready to dish!