New Generation SIF...

Thas right...get it girl! When dinner is that good it's perfectly acceptable to trade in the fork for a shovel! The original SIF ate with their hands...Emma Grace is bringin it back! Go Girl! Note the milk tossed to the side and the extreme focus. Trainin her well Kimo!

A Miracle...Scaled Down

Today I did the unthinkable. No, I didn't throw out a donut. It's more probable I would dumpster dive for a half eaten donut. Reminds me...I bought these scrumptious chocolate covered bear claws on Sunday. What??...It's not like it was "New Me Monday"...gheez. Who knew bears were so tasty? Not my husband. He didn't get his hands on a one of those. There were 12 in the box. 6 for me on Sunday and 6 more when I came up with a reason to eat them. Like..it's Tuesday. Or Wednesday or something.  There are now 3 left. I'm actually hiding them from myself. It's tricky hiding things from yourself. You know where they are but you try and forget. I can't find my f'n car keys on a good day but I sure as hell know where to put my hands on 1200 calories in a hot minute! Damn! Anyway, back to the unthinkable. I'm more comfortable on that side of town. I stepped on the scale. Why? Who the hell knows. Why does any woman step on the scale? Hoping for a miracle perhaps? Sort of like when you get married. You know it's a train wreck waiting to happen but whatever Everyone's doing it. So I stepped on the scale not sure it would even hold me at this point. I have, after all, been on a non-stop holiday binge. Yes I realize the holidays ended months ago....in my world holiday's don't end. Fala freakin la.

So there I was... on the scale hoping my husband wouldn't burst into the bathroom and realize he's married to a zip code. I'd much rather have him watch me take a dump. At least that occurs naturally within the human species. I haven't quite figured out how I occurred. Not naturally. That's for sure. Sometimes when I hop on the scale it flashes a number so high I just know it can't be right. I'm good for about 4 pounds a month... of gain. Not 40! I wish I had that kind of ambition. Anyway, on this particular day the scale was plotting against me. It flashed a huge number. I dismounted the piece of trash to grab a knife and put and end to the madness when I realized it read, "Error." Can't get rid of me that easily bitch!  I decided to press my luck and stepped on it one more time. My dream come true. It was dead. Gone. Right in front of my very eyes. I killed the scale. Under the pressure of all that is me it finally went home... to hell. Yes, scales have souls. Dirty, rotten souls. There I was. After 6 bear claws, 2 trips to McDonald's and no sex to burn it off  hoping I would put up a good number. It's all about managing your expectations. It didn't say "Error." It didn't say, "You fat whore. Thanks for killing me." It simply said, 'Battery." So...now this bitch needs something from me? How interesting. My scale wants me to bring it back to life. Give it a reason to torture me some more. I'd have to think about this one...

So I'm in Walmart looking for a battery when I realized I needed new underwear. Mother convinced me Hipsters were all the rage back in December. I'd grown a size since then and it was time to move on to big girl panties. Attractive. Yet still not enough of a reason to stop eating. Instead I bought boy shorts. Who thought this was a good idea? I don't have a dick. I have a huge ass! Who wears these things? 1/4 pounders that's who! No part of my 10 gallon ass was fitting in these things. But...just like my scale, I assumed a miracle was on the horizon. I took my old battery to the section of Walmart that sells these sorts of things. Actually, I just asked the man with no teeth and a blue smock to snatch me one. I was getting hungry and I didn't have time for a dissertation on batteries. Shift workers. They always want to share their expertise on shit I could care less about. I had boy shorts to try on and a scale to revive. So I got home and decided to try on the boy shorts post haste. Yes, I thought maybe I would look hot and score some sex. Not even close. I looked like a large prepubescent boy born without a penis and an abnormally large ass.  They would have to be exchanged for thongs immediately if not sooner. I was in need of a miracle. I dug in the bag looking for the battery. No battery. It was sabotage! That no tooth havin mother f'r forgot to put the most important thing in the flippin bag! Thanks! Send me home with man shorts and no way to counteract the man in the mirror! I looked on the receipt. It wasn't on there. Great. At least I wouldn't have to call and admit to buying scale batteries at my size. Back to Wally World it was. No one should have to go there twice in their life much less twice in one day. This frugal fatty loves a good bargain but not at the expense of the scenery...if you know what I mean. Surely you've gotten the emails...

I started thinking, this was a sign from God. He wants me to be fat so I can finally write the book that's going on 39 years in the making. Hell, if Snookie can write a best seller surely I can make some pocket change. Speaking of which.....outrageous! What world do we live in where a midget with big hair from NJ writes a book and it sells enough copies to be a NYT Best Seller?! WTF?! All you bitches better buy my book and I betta outsell that hooka or I'm outin all a y'all. I know who you are...I got tracking on this bitch! So anyway, was this a sign from the man above or just confirmation men who wear smocks are idiots? I swear I'll never know. God wants me to be fat? But I want to get laid. Just another round of Hail Mary's I suppose. It's the sweets. That's what keeps me fat. Sugar. Men are like sweets. They are no good for you yet you keep going back for more. Both deliver a slow agonizing death. At least sweets are all pleasure. I can live without men. Not sugar. Or my rabbit. I did this visualization exercise. Imagined myself thin. Who am I kidding? I don't have that kind of imagination. What would I be wearing? What would I look like? Well...I would be wearing all the clothes in my closet with tags on them and I would look just like I do now minus a few chins, half an ass and some love handles. Still hot. Just less heat. I don't know. Those clothes in my closet went out of style like 10 years ago. Apparently the diet has taken longer than predicted. I really should stop buying clothes for when I'm skinny. Hell, leg warmers are back. That's what sucks about being fat. Missing out on style. I see girls walking around in cute clothes that I could soo rock. Except the part where they don't come in Junior 22X. I know there's a market for that, fyi. Even shoes are a problem. Cute little flats all open and dainty. Not so cute and dainty when the cankles pour fat over the opening like a class 4 rapid. Not a good look at all. So I stick to stretchy jeans and long shirts. Dead give away. SIF. Yes, I could go to the big girl store. I could also stick pins in my eyes. I'll be doing neither.

I need to get out more. Maybe if I was more stimulated I wouldn't concentrate on food so much. My current level of stimulation involves looking for blackheads on my husbands back ripe enough for picking. Shocking? Gross? More than enough reason to stay single. Believe me....this is what married people do. They tell stories of wild parties, sex... all lies. "Backne." That's where it's at.  All those years of watching Dallas I thought marriage would consist of knocking back Bourbon and banging a Bobby Ewing look alike. 1out a 2 aint bad. I like Bourbon. I did start running again. The Dr. told me not to. More reason to do it. He doesn't seem to understand my caloric bank is in foreclosure. I was a runner storing up calories for a rainy day. Or a sunny day. Or any day. Now I owe more than I can ever pay back! It's a caloric crisis! I need a loan! So I went running the other day and noticed my back wouldn't straighten. I felt like I was running with my back arched. I immediately knew something was wrong. I had gained so much weight my ass was causing my back to bow. Shit! More reason to keep running. It never occurred to me my back might be getting ready to spasm. So I ran some more. Then I drove 10 hours and slept in a foreign bed. And then my back said, "Screw you fat girl!" It stopped working. Darn I would have to lay in bed and my husband would have to do everything. Was this even possible? It had never been done before. Could I have willed my back to do such a thing? If so I need to take that shit on the road! I got good drugs. Of course at the expense of being weighed. At least this nurse didn't make a comment. She was too busy being a bitch. That's a big job. How can you be in the medical field and be evil? You can get drugs any time you want...be happy! I thought about going back on the crack. That whole stroke thing worries me a bit. I don't want to be skinny lying in the dirt. I don't do dirty.That's not to say I'm not dirty. Just out of practice...

SIF we have Competition...

Fatty Beauty Pagent....

Sisters beware...the law aint on our side...

Courtesy of Perez Hilton....

http://perezhilton.com/2011-01-18-man-shoots-friend-for-eating-his-cake-without-asking

Man Shoots Friend For Eating His Cake Without Asking!

Filed under: Icky Icky Poo > Wacky, Tacky & True > Legal Matters
Well refrain from the obligatory 'let them eat cake' joke because this is actually pretty messed up, apart from its innate ridiculousness. A Philadelphia man is on the run today after he reportedly shot and severely wounded his friend - and all over a piece of cake!
According to authorities, the two men were in a car together late Monday morning when the passenger began eating a piece of cake that belonged to the driver. The man became so furious that after a heated argument, he got out of his seat and shot his friend in the chest!

The investigator reveals:
"They weren't supposed to be sharing. One was eating the other's food, they got into an argument and 'Bang! Bang!'"

The victim, a 31-year-old, is hospitalized and in critical condition. The driver has yet to be apprehended.

Holy shiz!

We know it's rude to take food without asking, but HELLO?! It's a lot more rude to shoot someone in the chest - and a lot more ILLEGAL!

We hope that this guy is caught quickly - if he's willing to fire a weapon over cake, we don't want to know what he's like when he's really upset!

***FYI Perez...the bitches on this site find it perfectly acceptable to kill for food.***

The used Merecedes..

I'm back from my 20 minute oil change. As usual, whenever one dares enter the depths of my cavern, there's a traumatic story to follow. Let's begin at the beginning. I always arrive early for scheduled maintenance. That's how you get the good magazines. Arrive late and last year's issue of "Parenting Magazine" is all yours. That sort of literature puts my vag in emergency lock down. Besides, what use would I have for a magazine that clearly illustrates the consequences of sex? I'll remind you that verb is not used in my household. In any event, I got to the crotch doc 45 minutes early. Not planned. 20 minutes gets you the magazine. 45 gets you the cover of OCD Weekly. My plan was to get there a shad early and grab a bite to eat. However, memories of last year's oil change overthrew my urge to graze. I made an executive decision. Nix  consumption until after the weigh in. As if this strategy was going to make a difference. I needed to lose 20 lbs in 45 minutes. Mind you I gained 30. I should have puked in the parking lot. I had at least 5 lbs of undigested french fries from the trip up. My only hope...Dumb Nurse. There was just no way that was happening. With 45 minutes to kill, pre-poke consumption nixed, and purging not plausible ...what's a girl to do? Why plan a meal of course! I can't think of a better thing to do when you can't eat than plot out your next binge. After all, the 5 hour drive to VA gave me an opportunity to do some research. I'm sorry to report my section of 95 North offers the run of the mill Burger King, "MacDonald's" and so on. It's like revisiting a one night stand. Why? Been there done that and the portions aren't suitable, thank you.  I need the Brad Pitt of fast food. A hot meal with a boat load of meat hold the bun. Something to twinge my twat (it was that sort of trip after all). I give you...Long John Silvers.

So, there in the parking lot of the place where neither my legs or my weight loss would come together, there was hope. I pulled out my phone and began looking for LJS locations I may have missed along the way. Clearly there should have been a sign. Vegas style complete with flashing lights. "We have planks & Crunchies." On that note, if you are a true LJS fan, pause for reflection. Mother use to take me to LJS every weekend. Yes, I just said that. That was back when they gave you the crunchies for free. Now in the age of the food pyramid and stupid healthy people, you have to ask & pay extra for them "Um, yeah, I'll have the 3 piece chicken plank dinner, add a plank, super size, throw in the fried fat drippings and a Diet Coke." *random sign of the cross* Whilst the end result is sheer pleasure, ordering is a bit traumatic. As my humongous paws were pounding away at my keyboard I realized something...even if I found a LJS it would be 3 days before I could get to it! Panic. Focus. I managed to find every one within a 100 mile radius. My f'n mouth was watering for batter dipped chicken and it was just 7:30am. Somewhere along the way I lost track of the fact I was suppose to be losing weight in the parking lot not planning my next binge. It's a sickness people!  As I Mapquested (Sarah Palin style word) the closest one, I realized I didn't have anything to write on. Crisis. I grabbed a used deposit slip and wrote frantically over the numbers that represented my worth to my employer. Too shameful to report I fear. A bad thought ran through my head. It would be just my luck. I would die in a car crash trying to find a LJS and the world would come to realize my obsession with eating via a blood stained deposit slip. I can't think of a more fitting exit.

After meal planning I thought it safe to head to Beaverville. I was still 15 minutes earlier than the 15 minutes early they had asked me to be. I wasn't sure there would even be magazines at this hour. I walked in and my heart sank. New Nurse. I don't like New Nurse. She was less than attractive and appeared to be a "by the book type." I don't like her kind. I prefer everything my way. She looked a little old. I prayed for blindness. Mean receptionist wasn't in yet. I was sure she would scold me for being too early. She scolds me for everything else. Having a long distance number, an out of state check and moving too much. Obviously I'm running from the law bitch. Go change your diaper. When mean old receptionist arrived, I decided to pick a fight with her. I was bored and I didn't feel like reading the latest literature on crabs. It was too early and I didn't want to spoil my post-poke appetite. My plan....when she asked for my co-pay I would tell her she was only getting $15- not the $30 on my card. Like a good fatty about to get fingered I filled out everything she asked me to. When I gave her the check for $15 she scowled. "Your card clearly says $30 for a specialist." I explained to her that the Mercedes was here for a routine check-up and wouldn't be going up on the lift. She backed down before I had a chance to impress her any further with my keen Blue Cross Blue Shield knowledge. Fatties 1, Mean Receptionist 0. A frugal fatty knows $30 is a bit steep for 20 minutes of prodding.

As New Nurse called me back I started thinking about something that would make me cry. This visit would require tears in order to explain how I went from heavy to morbidly obese. I started thinking about the 72 hours I would have to wait before I could munch on crunchies. Tears began to stream. Damn. It was too early. She would think I was crazy. Allergies. That's it. In the last 12 months I had random allergies to everything in the outer aisles and was forced to feed on Little Debbie until such time they could find a cure. It wouldn't be necessary. She didn't catch the tears. Instead she went straight for the gut. It was like, "Hi, how are...what do you weigh?" I didn't know which question to answer first so I went with, "Hello, I feel like shit and alot." She wasn't amused. I gave her the number she was digging for. In turn she gave me the death stare. She would go on to give me something of a compliment/insult. "You don't look like you weigh that much." Hmm. How does one respond to that? "And you don't look like the whore who's going to ruin my day." Nouf said. Moving on to blood pressure. I'm all for technology except when it works against me. "Your blood pressure is 138/83." No, that's my goal weight/the number of times I have failed to reach it this month. What?! My first thought was a one way ticket to the fat farm. Surely death was looming. I needed one last meal and then "New Me" would have to come out to play. Then logic kicked in and I asked for a recount. She looked offended. Whatever. You want to be offended? I'll drop my thong. I always get my way. She took it manually. Amazingly it dropped to 123/79. I chalked it up to one part nerves one part KFC within the last 24 hours. I'm OK with rising above the bar. It's what I do.

I made light of my weight gain to try and get her on my side before hot doctor got involved. I explained I had been hit by a car and wasn't able to run for months. I left out the part about me being in a car when I was hit and being able to do other exercises. Ughum. No need to get lost in the details. It worked. She grabbed my arm and asked me if I was doing ok now. Well right now, no. In about 20 minutes when I'm at Bojangles, yes. She took me into a room with cold utensils that would soon explore my nether regions while I laid patiently in my paper dress. Clearly there has to be a better way to declare my vag crab free. I think sex with the hot doctor should do it. But I played her game. I started undressing as she left the room. Much to my surprise, she came back in to retrieve a folder as I was prying the thong that claims it doesn't creep (and it does) from my ass. She will remember to knock next time. I'm sure of it. Of course like the non college grad I am, I put the "dress" on backwards. Whatever. Ties go in the back. Everyone knows that. You want it that easy, it'll cost YOU money. The doctor came in and I instantly attacked him with all that is me. "So I'm sure the nurse told you I was in a near fatal car accident thus resulting in this horrific weight gain." "It's fine. Certainly understandable in this situation. You'll bounce back." Of course I'll bounce. Did you peep the number? That's what I love about my doctor. I could tell him I have AIDS and he would tell me it's certainly a manageable situation and not to worry. Mind you we will never be having that conversation bcs it requires sex. In fact, I dare say I owe him a thank you note for dusting my cobwebs. He felt the need to address the fact that I could be 90 years old and still on the pill if I wanted to avoid menopause. Um yeah. I'm on the pill to avoid crumb snatchers. Not plausible at 90. Perhaps sex will be. Dreamer...

After all was said and done I realized, you can never have a bad day as long as you have a good excuse. Loser words to live by. I headed to Panera for a treat. What? Doctors don't give stickers to 38 year olds. I wanted to see my friend Laurie and she works by Panera. Strategic. Of course I gave her a courtesy call beforehand. "I'll be there at 10. I'll be the fat one in the 4Runner in case you don't recognize me." It's Fatty 101. Always forewarn friends of weight gain. It sets up the instant compliment, "You look great." Or in Mother's case, "You don't look that bad. I've seen you bigger." After visiting with Laurie for an hour it was time for lunch. You do the math. So I ate and ate and ate until I was time for me to go home....aka LJS. I thoroughly enjoyed my visit to DC. If you ever get the chance to go you should do what I did, sleep and eat. Thank you Susan. On the way back to NC I started to feel like I was getting sick. Sure. Now I can puke. Nothing would keep me from LJS. I scouted the exit like hunter honing it's prey. It wouldn't be easy. There was a reason it wasn't on the sign. It was about 40 miles off the exit. No matter. When I arrived I felt a bit climatic. I decided if I had come this far I would go inside like a civilized human. As I waited in line I noticed the booths were named after coastal towns. Nags Head. Virginia Beach. It was a sign. I was home. I stood there thinking...this is a fish place and I just went 40 miles out of my way to get here and....order chicken. Yes, yes I did. Like a true fatty I got my order to go and ate it in the car. I didn't want anyone to hear me moan. In a flash it was gone. Add a plank, crunchies, super size diet wondrous wonder gone. Depression set in. Maybe I could sneak up here once a month. My husband would think I was cheating, follow me and realize I was having an affair with plank of chicken. Meat is meat. I'd still get half. It's the law.

The Mercedes is back home safe and sound where it will remain unscathed for another year. A 38 year old Mercedes with 2 miles on it. It was used when I bought it....

New Me...is currently unavailable

She doesn't want to come out and play. I tried bringing her out for "New Me Monday" (as per SIF protocol) but she opted for $1 drafts and pizza. Who am I to deny her Frugal Fattness?  It's not like I was unprepared. At 11:59pm on Sunday evening I hung motivational statements on my mirror in an attempt to put the transition to the other side in perspective. "You are a fat whore. Fat people suck. Your husband won't bang you bcs weigh more than he does." I can't imagine why I wasn't fired up come Monday morning. In between making homemade "Successories" I saw something staring back at me I didn't recognize. It sorta looked like me but..... right above the top of my jeans was an inflatable disk that hung against my seams from front to back. It appeared to be extraterrestrial in nature. Aliens trying to get in my jeans? At least someone is. There also appeared to be some sort of handles underneath my shoulder blades? When I stretched my arms to flatten them I gained a cup size as they reformed in the shape of DD breasteses. I attempted to bend over but this mass inhibited me from touching my toes.  Definitely some sort of stage 9 cancer. Not sure how I got it. The aliens must have brought it on the space ship. In case you haven't had the occasion to be in this "situation," I should warn you..."what lies beneath" is always scarier than what's staring back. As if one needed more motivation than Diabetes, Death and Divorce....I give you... THE HUGE VAG. Yes sisters I speak the truth. You CAN super size the pink taco without giving birth. Here's the recipe...1 part MacDonalds, 2 part KFC and 0 part sex. It's a wonder the thing doesn't spontaneously combust. Reason #1 to jump on board the "New Me Monday Express"- Big Beaver. That's all I can really say about that. Oh...except to say if you are a Brother in Fat...it's not a reciprocal issue. If I thought I could get me some mammoth willy by way of a BIF..I would have been there done thought. Myth busted.

Moving right along. Loser. That's me. I literally ate myself into a coma between Thanksgiving and New Years, in preparation for the big day of course. I was truly at the point of making myself sick with all the sugar and fat when January 3rd crept up on me. Letting go isn't easy. It's like breaking up with an asshole boyfriend. You know it's the right thing to do yet something compels you to let him linger in the background for rough sex and self pity. I find food very orgasmic. The word "lunch" makes me salivate. That's the most excitement I get these days. When the word "lunch" equals salad (and not with ranch dressing)...it's like sex with the hot older guy who forgot to pop the Viagra. What's the point? If I wanted to eat such trash I would get down on all fours, grow utters and graze with the cows. I think if I were an animal I would be a Chupacabra. Don't know what that is? Exactly. Hiding out. Eating what I want. People wondering if you are for real. That's my gig. For now, I'll have to live in the plus size plethora of phat that is me. It's out of control. I don't want to be photographed. For good reason. I saw pictures of me at New Year's and it looked like I was trying to eat my friends. When your face looks like a weather balloon and your fingers look like dick daggers, it's best to stay clear of the photogs.

Since coming to grips with my shortcomings, I started thinking about all of the things I "can't" do. I can't grow a beard, I can't grab my dick, I can't let someone wait on me hand and foot without giving them sex, I can't fight the Taliban, I can't cut my own hair and well...it would appear I can't lose weight. I watch the Biggest Loser. I keep thinking, "If they can do it so can I." That thought expires at the commercial break when I head downstairs for some Doritos and Peanut M&M's. What? Dorito breath doesn't get you sex? Nor does Dorito breath laced with Peanut M&M's. I was just trying to make a point. I just don't happen to recall what that point was. Ughum. My point is...do you know there are people eating tapeworms to lose weight? Really?! I eat worms. Gummy worms. I don't find they reciprocate. Fuckers. My point is...can I get on the Biggest Loser? I'm not 300 lbs but I can work on it. I think Bob is hot. I fear he's gay. I love the gays. Not sure he would love me at 300 lbs or with a vagina but you never know. I could be his mercy fuck. I'm okay with that. I know this...that Jillian has a penis.

You'll be pleased to know in the midst of "New Me Monday" which is now "New Me Next Monday," I am headed off to see my favorite doctor! It's time to take the Mercedes to Jiffy Lube! One problem. You'll recall last year's incident with "dumb nurse" wherein as she single handidly made me lose 20 lbs by reading the scale wrong. That one. My short term goal at that time (12.5 months ago) was to actually lose the 20 lbs and come out even. Goals are for losers. I gained 20lbs (at least). I plan to sell her down the river with some random story of her telling me I needed to gain weight as I was too thin. Or something. I don't know. Maybe she'll be working. Problem solved. Unless she got glasses or a clue. This will involve tears. My Dr. was so happy at my fake weight loss. I hate disappointing him. He's so freaking hot. I wonder if he enjoys looking at vag all day. I wouldn't. It's like looking at wrinkled neck fat. Yummy. My dick would be hard when I got home. Not. I wouldn't want to look at penis all day either. Unless it was hard, 10 inches and ready to strike. I would be ok with that. I'm getting off track...

So...due to "inclimate weather," New Me Monday has been rescheduled until January 9th. However comma, my Dr. may admit me after realizing I need to be weighed via horse scales. Should this happen, I request to be fed bacon grease by way of an IV. I'm sure my vitals are tragic. They say you should listen to your body. I can't hear a thing over my ass. Fucker won't shut up. In any event, if Susan is any sort of friend she will force feed me all weekend and send me home with all sorts of motivational advice to the contrary. Susan, hear my prayer.

Dear Santa...

Please get here soon. I'm one sugar cookie short of a metric ton. I read the box. Each cookie has 8 grams of fat...before the frosting. Multiply that by 22, divide by 8 carry the 7....yeah math isn't my thing. I can only assume the numbers aren't working in my favor. In addition to gorging myself beyond recognition, I'm sick of being nice to people I don't like in the name of holiday spirit. If I hate you between January and November...it's a safe assumption I'll feel the same way in December. Any outward displays of affection to the contrary should be taken as a futile attempt at scoring a gift. Much like my fake boobies, my tree is one of the genetically altered persuasion. I find fake trees to be perky and without sag. Funny, a $40 tree gets more action than $5000 worth of plastic surgery. Perhaps Santa can fix that. Is it wrong to ask for sex for Christmas? It's what you get the girl who has everything and gets nothing. Maybe he can send me an elf to bang. I can do short if it comes with a good package. I'm an EOF...Equal Opportunity Fatty for those of you who rode the short bus and still should. I'll make sure Santa sends you a shiny new helmet.

Being that I love to cook (about as much as I enjoy a raging case of crabs), I often watch the Today Show to see what everyone's cooking up for the holidays. Beyond annoying. Every food segment is about cutting calories.  It's the socially acceptable eating season! I don't want to hear about the takeaway! Save that shit for January when I reinvent myself for the 38th time. Mind you "old me" will linger into June but I definitely start planning in January. "Use a smaller plate . Have just one cookie and walk away (laughable). Pour your drink on your food when you are full" ( I am personally offended by this one...wasting a good drink to ruin good food all in the name of fullness). I don't need tricks. I gots mad skills. In the name of good will to men...I mean women...I could give a rats ass about willingly giving anything else to men...in any event...in the name of good will to women I give you my holiday secret: Elastic waist pants. Get you one of those disco ball shirts to cover up the band and eat until you are tired. Hell throw on a belt if you feel the need to have a waistline. I don't give a damn. That's how you cut calories....you cut them from the skinny bitches who try all those stupid tricks and end up in the bathroom gorging on the ham biscuits they stuffed in their pockets when they thought no one was looking. I was looking. When it comes to food I'm always looking. I see you. Caloric whores.

As I see it, I have about a week and a half to fit as many calories as humanly possible into what's slowly becoming a non-human like frame. I fear I'm beginning to resemble a Yettie. If I start seeing people randomly snapping pictures and making molds of my foot prints I shouldn't assume it's for a star on Hollywood Blvd?More like a segment on Sci-fi. Fame is fame sisters. I know I'm at the pinnacle of laziness when I get dressed to run in 30 degree weather, head out the door, run 1 mile, come back in the house and eat a donut. It must be December. It's hard to believe in just 1 month I'll be eating salads and reading Fitness magazine again. I hate fuckin salad! Why does every diet consist of stupid vegetables and dead game? Can't we all just get along? My friend Val knows a guy who makes homemade croutons. I think they are the enemy but I feel like I'm gettin one over when I sneak a few.  I hear he fries them in pig fat. Well I didn't say I was becoming a vegetarian did I? I know this, "New Me Monday" is going to be more painful than ever. I have spent the last 3 months working over the food pyramid. I fear it's more of a rectangle of carbs and fat at this point. Sort of like my figure. That's the great thing about being married (notice that statement is not plural)- if you don't give me sex... you get to spend the entire winter lying next to Orca the killer wife...complete with non-pedicured toes and full bush. Yummy. The not so endangered species around these parts.

 So I hope you all get what you want for Christmas. Remember the reason for the season....FOOD! Contrary to popular belief it is NOT better to give than to receive. Unless you are re-gifting in which case just make sure you aren't giving it back to the person who gave it to you. I've done that. My mother in law wouldn't take back her son. I wonder how much wrapping paper it will take to wrap my husband? I'm doing a gift exchange for Brad Pitt. Dr. Drew says Angelina is strung out on heroin so I figured now's my opportunity to show Brad what it feels like not to hit bone. A little fatty reverb is in order. Oh...yeah...mental note...do not include return address when shipping husband to cracked up A-Jo. Merry Christmas Fatties!

RIP SIF

I don't presume to think Elizabeth Edwards knew what a SIF was...but I want to honor her anyway. She fought the fight. She battled cancer, an asshole husband and never flinched. I don't care if you are Democrat, Republican or fat...you gotta love you some E squared. When I learned (this morning) she had stopped treatment I remember thinking, "I would so run for the border and McDonald's until such time that I could no longer muster the energy." Very sad. Apparently she stopped treatment sooner than the media knew because by the time I came home she had passed. May God rest her soul... and may she strike that two bit cheating asshole of a husband who thought banging a crazy ass skinny chick was a good idea...dead. You have the power girl...use it. No politics here sisters. You fuck around on a fatty....we are comin for ya. Let that be a warning. May God bless you SIF E2 and your family.
SIF

Suckin Dirty Bird...

Tara says, "Two blogs about how you are going to blog isn't a blog." You can't get anything by her. This is for you Tara. Because you are always one step ahead of me....

So...let's chat, shall we? I (literally) haven't put my fork down in 3 weeks. I live in fear someone will take it away. During the socially acceptable eating season, I like to keep it close my person. I realized something. If I eat with a smaller fork...I can eat just as much. It looks better...but it's fucking irritating. Try stabbing poultry with a kiddie fork. Not pleasant. I became "Feral Fatty Gone Wild" at the Thanksgiving table. I distinctly remember someone saying, "Does she know the turkey is already dead?" Attractive I'm sure.  And all this shit about eating on a smaller plate. So the plate's smaller. Yeah and? Now I have to get up 15 times and refill it! Oh I get it, caloric expenditure. Whatever. Fancy words don't impress me. My kitchen is about 5 feet from the grazing grounds. Next. Whilst I was having trouble separating myself from my fork emotionally (OK & physically), I was taking notes on Mother's comings and goings. If I lived with her 24/7 for 1 week...bestseller on my hands. She lives in another dimension known only to her. Throw out the GPS (which by the way she calls DVR)... you're only hope of getting there is a one way trip down the "8 Shades of Crazy Expressway." The tolls are steep and non-refundable.

So Mother arrived for the Thanksgiving holiday accompanied by her husband 2x over (yes, he did it twice...clearly a saint) and my brother who sometimes doubles as my sister. Look...I have to run my outfits by him before we go out so he's definitely harbouring a vagina somewhere. The worst part, he knows more about fashion than I do. Do you know what Celdon is? I can't even be sure that's how you spell it. Well he does. And he knows what rouge is.  I asked my husband what rouge was. I believe the response was, "How the fuck would I know?" Translation: I think I know but if I say it you'll think I'm gay. Fine. I'm OK with that. No vagina. Back to Mother. She arrived on a Sunday. The Lord's day. Cruel joke. Rumor has it she was holed up in the back seat wrapped in a Spiderman blanket for the entire trip. Sorry Spidey. What else was she going to do? Navigate? Not unless you want to end up in CA. Besides...there was a DVR for that. Sing, perhaps? Suicide by car. She feels signing in school plays back in 1912 qualifies her for American Idol. Not. Picture Lady Gaga's voice...the theatrical version. Crashing the car now. They stopped for lunch. Salads. Who does that? They went on and on about some stupid salad with cranberries. Whatever. My car only stops for things killed & tortured in grease. I don't brake for vegetables. It's UN-American.

They showed up at my house starving. Of course. People on diets are starving, miserable tortured souls. Come running to the fatty for some saving grace. Whatever. I made them chili. Fart your ass off and then tell me all about your stupid salad. For some non-eatin peeps they sure did wipe out a crock a chili. And my septic system for that matter. Mother may appear sweet and innocent. Hook her ass to a tree and she would be just fine. That's all I have to say about that. Like a good Hostess with the Most..ASS...I planned a menu that would force them to eat something other than lettuce, pizza with "light" cheese and no salt. Who lives like this? Put me in a pine box and plant the pansies...for the love of God! I made shrimp scampi. Yum eee. I knew they were scared. They hate garlic. I only used 1...bunch. I knew my Dad would give it a try no matter what. Mother on the other hand was squishing her face into a bunghole about 6 hours before I started cooking. She doesn't like anything new. That's why she married my Dad twice. *random sign of the cross* I give you the one liner that doubles as a compliments/insult. "Mother, what do you think of the shrimp scampi?" "It's good but I'll probably never eat it again." Excellent. She has a way of making you scratch your head and say, "WTF?"

On Wednesday I refused to cook. We ordered pizza. Now I ask you...at what point do the children become the parents and the parents become the children? Why do I find myself telling my Mother, "Please do not talk with your mouth full of food." She gets angry and won't speak to me. Mission accomplished. Seriously! Imagine you are enjoying a juicy piece of cheese pizza and someone turns to you and says, "Kudddy, r u essciited fur thansgivun?"- mouth full of shit. It's quite attractive. It gets better when random pieces of dough land on me. Yum. Dad I see why you went back a second time. The poor man is leading a miserable existence. He secretly told me of an incident that took place prior to their visit. I'm glad I only have 2 readers bcs she wouldn't want the worldwide web to know this. Scene...early morning. Mother comes into the kitchen after hours of applying Mary Kay with a spatula. Dad notices something hanging off the back of her. She insists she hasn't tucked in her shirt yet. Upon further investigation....toilet paper. Yards of it. I think it's time for managed care.

Thanksgiving Day was a tease. My husband brined the turkey whlist bragging about how quickly it would cook. That's why we put it in the oven at noon and ATE AT MIDNIGHT! It's Fatty Christmas Mother F'r! Santa is almost 24 hours late! Attorney on speed dial. We did our annual...let's go out and "earn" our meal run. Had I known I was going to spend the day waiting, I would have sat on my fat ass and cross trained with anticipation...she's my BFF. You know I had appetizers. I can only go so long without eating. The best of both worlds....veggies and HELLUVA GOOD DIP! Ying & Yang. Back to the run. Turtle (my skinny friend who's thyroid hates food...why can't I get that ailment?!) and I took my brother and Dad on the trails. My brother is a new runner. Translation...annoying. It's all about the time & the distance divided by the approximation of the proximate. Yeah I know. Whatever. Here's what it's all about...another helping! No math needed. They even ran to the end of the street and had me pick them up. Fine. I'm driving. This bus makes frequent stops...at McDonald's....oooohhhkay! I settled for the coffee shop, a ham croissant and watching my brother try and mack chicks. Try being the key word. His dick never sleeps. Literally. That's how I know he's not really gay. Just confused. Off white if you will. I wish he were gay. I love the gays.

There was some confusion surrounding our turkey. Mother couldn't figure out why the "suckin" plug wouldn't pop. "Must be something wrong with the suckin a-hole," she said. That's her version of Christian holiday verbiage. By 8pm I was fillin in the blanks! Brine my ass! I think the turkey was angry because we didn't stuff it. I know how I feel when I don't get stuffed. Takes me a while to pop too. So I took a baster, filled it with juice, shoved it in the turkey's ass and released. Amazingly it popped. From one pent up "bird" to another...amen. I managed to drop the deviled eggs on the floor. Mother couldn't get the top on the "suckin" things and failed to share this tidbit with anyone. 10 second rule. *Mental note- don't eat at my house* She's convinced my Tupperware is faulty. She was also convinced they moved the "suckin" mile marker by my house bcs she just knew the 10.5 milepost was before the light when she was here the last time. That's what her notes said. And we never deviate from the notes. Yes Mother. Right before you came there was a massive construction project wherein as the entire Outer Banks was shifted a half a mile to the south. Problem solved.  Dad couldn't believe I made macaroni & cheese for Thanksgiving. I blame it on the south. Everything fatty has roots in the south. Hell, down here Lard is an adjective, verb and a noun. I aint mad at ya. As far as I'm concerned Mother conceived me by way of a fat, highly attractive black man raised in the south. It's the only logical explanation for all that is me.

In what should have been a cute moment between a Grandmother and her Grandogs, she revealed her true feelings...she hates them. Scene...Grandpa goes into the bedroom to read and leaves the door slightly ajar. Porkchop (my bully boy) nudges the door open with his nose to see what Grandpa is doing. As he's walking in, Applesauce (my bully girl) follows him. Mommy (aka me) is laughing and watching them check out Grandpa. Grandma gets wind of the altercation and give me her "gas" face. It's something like a cross between her without makeup, Freddie Kruger & Chuckie. I told her to chill...they were just checking things out. To this she said, "They are trashers. Get them out of there." Trashers? WTF is a trasher? They have never trashed anything. Apparently a trasher is a term reserved for anyone she doesn't want in her bedroom. Dad, I fear you are a trasher. Ahhh a Grandma's love is forever.

It was Mother's "suckin" 65th birthday while she was here. I would have celebrated with her (bcs I love an excuse to eat out and indulge in some cake) but I was otherwise incapacitated. That's code for hungover. I went out with my brother the night before and apparently lost all sense of 1st grade math. 6 martinis + 1 overweight person = 1 overweight drunk person. It wasn't premeditated. Just Manslaughter. My husband text me at 11pm asking if I was bored and should he come out. I told him to stay home...nothing was going on. Imagine his surprise when I rolled in at 3am stumbling drunk. Payback for the pent up "bird." So the gang went to brunch and I stayed home and tossed the cookies I didn't get to eat. It's my worst fear realized. No appetite. Can't eat. Can't drink. Hell must be something like that. I guess I better start sayin "suckin" and wearing toilet paper as an accessory if I have any hope of going to Heaven. Lord hear my prayer.