Resolutions, anyone?

Hey guys!  Happy Monday to you all, as I’m sure you all woke up bright and cheery and looking forward to another LLLLLLOOOOONNNNNGGGGG week of work, right?  I know I did! Anyways, as today is January 7th, I wanted to ask you guys, how are the resolutions going?  We have now been into the year 2013 for a full week, and I’m sure that most of you who got that 1-year gym membership on January 1st have already found some excuse as to why you couldn’t go and rolled over and slept an extra hour at least three times already.  Am I right?  Of course I am!  Anyways, I just wanted to share with you guys about my resolution, and let you know how I’m doing.

So yeah, I’m gonna give you three guesses as to what my resolution was, and the first two guesses don’t count.  You got it?  Yep…I want to lose weight in the new year.  But you know what?  It’s much more than that for me.  This year, I’m turning 29, which sadly (and obviously), is the last year of my twenties.  If, at any time in the world I could finally consider myself an true adult, it is at the end of my twenties.  I mean, at this point, I’m expected to have a career, a house, kids, a dog, cat, hamster, and fish, a white picket fence, and some annoying neighbors who are too nosy for their own good.  Well, I have a good job (doesn’t pay great, but I absolutely love it, anyways), I do own a house (even though I don’t live in it), and as for the rest, well, they haven’t happened yet.  But, the thing is, I want them.  Well, at least the kids…we can leave off the rest and I’d be ok with that.  But you know, even if I had kids right now, I can imagine it would be pretty miserable.  I mean, for a guy of my size, I feel like I’m pretty fit.  I mean, I got out and walked 2 miles the other day.  Do you see a lot of 400lb + men out there doing that?  I know I don’t.  But you know, that doesn’t mean that it’s okay.  I was trying to fit into a shirt the other day and realized something as I looked in the mirror.  Firstly, I looked like a balloon.  Secondly, I realized how much weight I’ve gained recently.  And, I mean, I’ve been stressed out lately, and then you know, it was the holidays, but still…Looking in the mirror, I realized that my man-boobs now rival Dolly Parton’s, my stomach is roughly the size of the Good Year blimp, and my thighs could be mistaken for those of a t-rex if only they weren’t as white as Casper the Ghost.  So if I did have kids, A) I would be constantly out of breath, and B) I would stand a pretty good chance of rolling over and killing them as we played.  But, seriously…I don’t want to go through life having my kids judged because of what I am.  I mean, I don’t wanna be the fat dad raising fat kids who everyone hates and blames for high taxes and health insurance.  Just take this article, for instance:  (

Firstly, you can see an obvious issue.  It’s an article about obesity covered in McDonalds ads.  Yeah.  Second, see that picture on the side?

The one with the two overweight ladies talking to each other?  I really hate pictures like that, not because I hate fat people (obviously), or that I find them disgusting, but because I find the practice of reducing these people down to nothing but their obesity is a horrible practice.  But, other people have different opinions, and I’ll share some of the comments with you:

Anonymous13 mins ago

It’s TIME to take this disgusting photo DOWN.  We’ve viewed it too many times, already.  We “get the picture”.  Food stamps…….lazy…..taxpayers’ burdens.

fuzzyface20 hrs ago

At least those big women in the pict. can give a lot of shade in the cruel hot sun.

Klyde1 hr 25 mins ago

ROFL , 2  black porkers arguing about where they are going to eat lunch at

Robert F2 hrs 6 mins ago

Many Americans have become so arrogant and stupid they think that being criticized for being a big fat slob is something they should rebel against and that the people criticizing them are in the wrong for pointing out their gluttony . The reality is they should be ashamed of themselves for allowing themselves to get so fat in the first place. They deserve to get laughed at and criticized for being so fat, lazy and such slobs

You can see that people don’t react too kindly to us fatasses.  I just don’t understand what it is in our nature that makes us want to lash out at others to make ourselves feel better.  How is someone being overweight affecting you in such a way that you need to feel such hate and anger towards them?  Is it because of the fact that they raise heathcare costs?  Well, so do all of the smokers who end up with COPD and emphysema, so do all of your 90 year old grannies who end up in the hospital with bronchitis because they insisted on walking around the block in the 27 degree cold, and so do all those stupid idiots who insist on texting and driving who wreck their cars and end up spending months in the hospital and in physical rehab.  Should we just tear those people down too and make them feel like they are lower than the lowest scum?  Robert F.’s comment here is probably my favorite, because he actually put some thought into it, as opposed to the other assholes who just decided to insult people to make them feel better about themselves.  These people just don’t understand that it’s not as easy as putting down the Big Mac and getting out and walking.  I started getting fat when I was six years old.  My mom took me to the doctor (who did absolutely nothing), and she never got fat, nor did my brother, so I’m assuming it wasn’t something she was doing.  But you know what?  Robert F. up there thinks that because my six year old self allowed me to get fat, that I deserve to be laughed at and criticized.  Because at six, I had to be a fat and lazy slob.  Yeah.  And because I’m a fat a lazy slob now.
Anyways, I want to lose weight because of that.  Because I’m NOT a fat, lazy slob.  I DON’T deserve to be laughed at and criticized and neither do my kids. I don’t want them to be embarrassed to introduce their dad to their friends because he is fat.  I do my part in life, I work just like everyone else, I pay my bills, my taxes inflated by healthcare costs, and yet I do not feel the need to laugh at fat people.  Well, not because they are fat anyways…I laugh at them for doing and wearing stupid things, but hey, I laugh at skinny people for that too, I just don’t post about it.  Maybe I should…who knows?  But whatever…I’m trying to change, and I’m trying hard.  I am trying to exercise more, even though it’s hard.  My wife and I are looking at joining a gym.  I’m trying to be more consious about what I eat, and how much I eat.  But it’s a hard road.  My body wants what it wants.  Have you guys ever seen Mad TV with the Stuart skits, played by Michael McDonald?  It’s like that….whenever Stuart gets chocolate, his mom tells him not to eat it and he shoves it in his mouth as quick as possible.  It’s funny, but it’s like what my body does.  I’m like, I want some chocolate, I think I’ll eat just one piece.  Then, before I can stop myself, I’ve eaten 10 and I’m filled with regret.  You may laugh, but really, it’s just like that.












But yeah, I guess I need to work on that.  Anyways, I guess that’s an update as to how my resolution is going, and a little background into why hopefully, this year will be different.  So with that, I will sign off for today, and I’ll see you guys tomorrow!



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Uh, yeah…

So, today, I was maybe gonna post a “What you see and what you get”, but I was on Pinterest and saw a post for something on Buzzfeed, headed on over there, and BAM!  Like magic, all thoughts disappeared and I was sucked into the void that Buzzfeed is.  So, I pulled a bunch of stuff that I laughed at off of there and I’m gonna post it all right here for you!  So sit back, relax, and hopefully, laugh!  (all photos are from!)


#1:  Now, I don’t like to make fun of people.  No wait, scratch that.  I like to make fun of EVERYBODY, but I like to make fun of them equally.  I make fun of you, of her, of him, and most importantly, of myself.  Some people may get the impression that I like to make fun of fat people because I do the “Fat People Shouldn’t” and I guess it may come across as making fun of them.  The thing is, I’m fat, so I feel like I can.  I’m not skinny, so I’m not gonna just make fun of skinny people and then get a bunch of flak about how I just hate skinny bitches because I’m jealous, lazy, blah, blah, etc.  Maybe I should just do a “People Shouldn’t”  and put pictures of fat people, skinny people, ugly people, panda bears,  unicorns, and the occasional building, but you know, how would it fit my theme of “Fatass in a skinny world” then?  It wouldn’t, so shut yo mouth!  ANYWAYS…good God, did I just rant that much when i was supposed to be captioning this picture?  Yeah, sorry.  So yeah, the real #1:

You KNOW there’s a problem when you have to pull up a chair in the Burger King line.  I know that the “Have it your way” slogan make for some tediously long waits sometimes, but seriously?  Lady, I hope you have a wooden leg and you’re sitting because it’s digging into your stump of a thigh, because I see no other reason this sort of behavior.




#2:  I wish I had an 8×10 of this picture, because it would be hanging in my office.  The look on this lady’s face literally made me lol.  Yeah, it did.  Maybe she accidentally farted and that’s her “oops!” face.  Yeah, I’m pretty sure that is what’s happening here.



#3:  Mmmmm, cheese.  That’s all I have to say about that! (okay, one more thing…did you notice her dress has an african safari on it?  Oh yeah, now THAT is sexy!  This is what I’m talking about, all you stupid-ass clothing designers!  Who the hell wants to wear a dress with tigers, bison, and, what the hell…is that a unicorn?!  Yeah, no.  Whoever designed this should be forced to wear it for as long as they live.  Now THAT is all I have to say about THAT!)



#4:  I’m not sure what to think about this one.  Firstly, who let her walk out of the house in that shit?  Secondly, who let her actually WORK in that shit, and thirdly, why in the hell did she actually decide to buy and wear that shit?  Because, let me tell you, that shit AINT the shit!



#5:  No comment, just got a giggle looking at this one 😀



#6:  Oh, Paula Deen, I love you.  Your face, while devouring this monsterous cookie/ice cream/chocolate/little piece of Heaven just says it all!  No words are needed!  Love you, Paula!



#7:  Oh my…


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Laying it all on the line…

Hey guys.  So, tonight I come to you from a place that isn’t my normal sarcastic and obnoxious self, but a depressed and down self.  This isn’t gonna be a normal  post so much as a sort of journal entry, so consider yourself warned;  if you don’t wanna read my depressed ravings, it might be better to check back on Monday, where I will, hopefully, be in a better mood.

Anyways, you may be asking what I’m so depressed about.  Well, anyone who reads regularly or knows me knows that I was in a car accident a few weeks ago.    Now, thankfully, neither I, nor the woman who hit me was seriously injured, although I did spend half a day in the emergency room and had to take three days off work (she was fine and went on to work).  It’s just that now, almost three weeks later, I’m informed that her insurance company has decided that my car is totaled, and that is where the problem and stress lies.  Now, I just bought this car in the summer; we just sent off our fifth payment yesterday, if that tells you how new it is.  And you know, it’s not even that it’s practically a brand new car…the problem is the fact that we still owe just over $22,000 for it and the insurance company only wants to pay us $19,000.  That leaves us saddled with $3,000 in debt for a car that we don’t even have and couldn’t even drive if we did.  I mean, I went and got the last of my stuff out of it yesterday, and it was laying there with broken pieces scattered all around it.  I can see why it was totaled, but why do they have to screw me over so bad?  I mean, I did absolutely nothing wrong.  I was just driving to work, and suddenly, I was smashed up, my car was smashed up, and I was suddenly in a heap of debt.  How is it fair that I should have to pay a penny?  And don’t even say that life isn’t fair.  I know life isn’t fair, but this, this is a giant, heaping load of bullshit.  I mean, I now have exactly 7 days to come to an agreement with her insurance company and buy a new car.  And why 7 days?  Because that is when her insurance company stops paying for my rental.

So, I’ve learned a few things in this mess that I would like to pass on to you, and I wish I could go back in time and pass them on to me too, but live and learn, I guess.

#1:  Gap Insurance–Now, some of you may have heard of this before, but until this mess, I hadn’t.  What gap insurance is is insurance that pays the “gap” in what is covered by insurance and what is owed.  So, in my case, insurance wants to pay $19K and I owe $22K…Gap Insurance would take care of paying the $3K “gap”.  Now, I’ve heard this could be a pretty penny, but you know, the way car dealers are these days, selling cars for so much more than they bluebook for, it’s probably worth it.


#2:  Car Insurance–Truthfully, I don’t know if I just have a bad company or I just have a fantasy view of what these people should actually be doing, but I really don’t see the point of it all.  I mean, I have had to deal with this whole situation alone.  My insurance company has not offered to help in any way, not even when I asked them.  All I was told was that I would have to take it up with her insurance company.  And you know, I feel like that is ALSO a load of shit.  What am I paying these people for if they are just gonna sit on their asses when I need help?  And before you ask, I’m not gonna tell you who my insurance company is, or who hers is…the last thing I need is someone suing me for libel and slander.  Anyways, I am just severely disappointed with the quality of services I have received.


#3:  Life isn’t fair, so don’t waste your time complaining when the world gets down on you–Through this whole thing, my issue has been the issue of fairness.  It seems to me that I shouldn’t have to do a thing in this situation.  I didn’t cause the accident, I wasn’t at fault, she was.  To me, it seems like between my insurance company and hers, they should deal with each other, deal with my car, and get me a new comparable car without any hassle to me.  I mean, I did nothing wrong.  Why should I be out $3,000 and a car when this other woman made the mistake?  I should be able to go on my merry way in a rental and come home one day with a new car sitting in my driveway waiting for me, like the whole thing was just a bad dream and never really happened.  But alas, it DID happen, and I have to pay the price for someone else’s dumb mistake.  And you know what?  That is how the world we live in works.  We are all paying for someone else’s mistakes in some way, and I guess it’s time we just learn to bend over and take it, because it’s a dog-eat-dog world, and even if you don’t get eaten, eventually, you’ll at least suffer a bite.

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My man-boobs saved my life?!

Hey guys!  It’s been an exciting day!  And not exciting in a good way.  I almost died!!!!  This morning, on my way to work, I was just driving along, minding my own business, being awesome (like usual), and suddenly, I was pushing a smoking airbag out of my face, choking on powder, and wandering around my smashed up car like some dazed-out crackhead.  After walking around in circles like a zombie, I was advised by some people that I should probably sit back down in my car, (which I didn’t want to do, as the airbag was still pouring smoke out of it), but I did.  Minutes later, 2 cops, 2 firetrucks, and an ambulance arrived, and as the other driver was up walking around admitting to everyone that the accident was her fault (which it was, but it was really nice of her to admit it), I realized all of those were there for me.  And I was really embarrassed.  I mean, I was fine.  Yeah, I had some pain on my right side, but definitely not ambulance pain.  I was advised to go to the hospital, which again, I didn’t want to do, but after my wife showed up, it became less of an option and more like I was going whether I wanted to or not.  Anyways, after all of this, you may be asking yourself, “How, Nick, did your man-boobs save your life, and what does that have to do with a car accident you had this morning?”  Well, let me explain to you…After getting to the hospital, getting naked (upon request, which doesn’t happen much, let me tell you!), and looking in the mirror, I noticed that my right boobie was black, blue, and purple, and I realized, it had possibly saved my life!  I meean, if it hadn’t been for my boob taking most of the impact, what would have happend?  My ribs would’ve taken it!  Would they have been broken?  Pierced my lungs?  My spleen?  My HEART?!  Possibly.  You just never know.  And in that way, my man-boobs saved my life.  And think about it:  Say a fatty gets stabbed.  They stand less of a chance of sustaining major damage than a skinny bitch.  Fatty getting shot?  Same thing.  Mauled by a bear?  The bear would have more flesh to eat, getting full and leaving before actually reaching any important internal organs!  So see?!  Being fat WILL save your life, so go out, eat a cheeseburger, and gain a pound or two!  And quit worrying about all that junk like diabetes and heart disease…I mean, you are totally MUCH more likely to be mauled by a hungry bear, and someday, YOUR man-boobs may save YOUR life!

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The Spider-Bite Diet, My New Weight-Loss Sensation!

Hey, everybody!  Hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving, and hope equally that you all came home from Black Friday shopping un-maimed and trample-free!  Today, I want to discuss with you an interesting topic that somehow found its way to the food-filled dinner table yesterday, as odd topics will when you get a bunch of random crazies together in the same room.  While pleasantly downing a teensy tiny brownie (okay, maybe not so teensy), I overheard a story being told about a brown recluse bite that one of my wife’s uncles had received a few years ago.  Now, as those of you who know me in the real world have already been informed, my house is like some kind of spider refuge, evidenced by the never-ending streamers of web that show up in every nook and cranny of our house, not to mention the spiders generally hanging out either in them, or, in one unpleasant case, climbing up my arm as I brushed my teeth.  I’ve seen orb weavers, jumping spiders, crab spiders, cobweb spiders, and the always infamous black widows.  But the really invasive ones, the ones who decided that they would move in and start a huge family that spans from one end of our house to the other, that would be the brown recluse.  I have seen more brown recluses in my house that I have seen doughnuts and cupcakes, so you KNOW that means there must be a lot of them!  So, like any smart person, I listened in on the story (which didn’t end up being all that interesting) and came out with this little tidbit of information:  Apparently, brown recluse spiders, like every other creature on this earth, hates fatasses.  Now, what do I mean by that?  Well, let me tell you.  According to my wife’s uncle, brown recluse venom causes damage to fat faster than it does muscle.  So, if I got bitten at the same time as some gym loving, weight lifting, vegetable-obsessed, fat deprived skinny bitch, my fat, jiggly rump would rot off much faster than their firm, tight little ass.  What the hell?!  How is that shit fair?  But you know, that kinda got me to thinking…Maybe it’s not such a bad thing.  I mean, how many of us have dieted over and over and over, never able to lose our fat?  Maybe it’s time for a new strategy.  Maybe, just maybe, I should comb over my house, catch all 549,374,750,983,509,834,509,883,095,340,598 brown recluses that are living in it, pour them in the bathtub, then jump in with them.  I’ll sustain about a bajillion bites, and all the fat on my body will suddenly melt away.  Who could ask for more?  I mean, yeah, I’ll be horribly disfigured, but you know what?  People are WAY more accepting of someone who is maimed than someone who is fat.  At least if your face looks like someone tried to massage it with a concrete block, people tend not to blame it on the fact that you’re just a lazy asshole who doesn’t want to be any different.  Yeah, I’ll get stared at when my eyeballs start oozing down my blackened, necrotic cheeks, but hey, I won’t be able to see, so I won’t give two shits.  So, if you wanna lose a bunch of weight really fast, and you don’t care if random fingers, toes, and chunks of flesh fall off randomly while you’re walking, grab a jar, a towel, and come join me in my bathtub!  We’re in for a frighteningly good time!

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Hide The Fatties!!!!!!!

Hey guys!  What’s up?  Got an interesting observation to share with you guys today, and I just wanted to see if anyone else has noticed anything similar.  So, this past weekend, my wife and I went clothes shopping.  Now, I don’t do this often, as clothes shopping is pretty much the bane of every fatty’s existence, but I’m going to be shooting the video at the wedding of a couple of friends on December 1st, (congrats, Justin and Alicia!), and I had to go get a new shirt and some pants, as I have no decent dress shirts and I’m about 50lbs too fat for the black dress pants that I bought a few years ago.  Ahhh…the joys of being a fatass, right?  Anyways, so we went to JCPenny first, as they have a decent Fatass section, got some pants, and then tried not to complain too much when my wife started searching for clothes.  This continued through a few more stores, (and a few more $100 dollar bills), but over the course of the day, I noticed something that all of the stores had in common.  Firstly, next time you go in a store, look around and see if you can find the Big and Tall or Plus-Size sections.  And no, I’m not complaining because they don’t actually exist, because usually they do, no matter how woeful their selection may be.  I’m talking about their location.  Location, Location, Location.  It’s important, isn’t it?  So, where is the Fatass section in most stores?  As you may have guessed, it is generally located in some far-off, obscure corner of the store, miles from anything you may ever want or need.  After thinking it over, I’ve come up with a few probable reasons for this:

1) Store designers/CEO’s/Owners/Managers/Employees/Skinny Bitches/etc. don’t want to have to be seen anywhere near the disgusting Fatasses also shopping for (tent-sized) clothes.  I mean, they might catch a terrible case of obesity and end up going home with giant love handles and chafing thighs.

2) Maybe they are afraid they will slip in a puddle of fried chicken grease or be beaten to death by a fatty who mistakes the brown sweater you’re holding up for a giant steak.  Who knows for sure?

3) It was deemed by the Store-Owners Association of America that the Fatass section should be put at the furthest possible location from any exit in order to force us fatties to get some much needed exercise.  How else could you explain the fact that by the time I found the Big and Tall section in JCPenny #2, (yeah, we went to multiple locations), everyone had a British accent and I had to exchange my American dollars to British pounds?  £400.00 for my 400lb. ass seems appropriate, right?  Nevermind the fact that I also had to walk 400 miles to get there…

Anyways, I just think it’s a load of shit.  Just because fatties aren’t deemed by society to be as pretty or desirable as skinny bitches, we are forced to shop in the sub-basement of the store like some leprous version of Michael Jackson, dropping bits of his nose here and there as he searches for giant Hawaiian print Golden Girls shirts.

So, those are my thoughts.  What do you guys think?  Have you noticed similar patterns, and if you have, how did you find your way out of the hidden cellar hole where you found appropriate clothes?  Bread crumbs?  Rope?  GPS?  Let me know!

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You wanna put a camera WHERE?!

Hey guys!  As you probably noticed, I didn’t post any last week.  Now, part of this was just because I’m a slacker, but not all.  For those of you who actually know me, you already know that I underwent a surgical procedure last week, and this is the main reason that I was a slacker.  Good enough excuse, right?  So, if you wanna know more about it, keep reading…Let me enlighten you.

So, over the past few years, I’ve had a problem with repeated Urinary Tract Infections.  Apparently, men are never really supposed to get these, mainly due to the anatomy.  A few weeks ago, I realized that I was feeling symptoms of yet another UTI coming on, mainly back pain and also pain while I was using the bathroom.  Well, after noticing that there was some blood in my urine, I decided a trip to the doctor was needed.  So, I went to an urgent care clinic, who then directed me to an actual doctor.  They took urine samples, tested for bacteria (I was positive, meaning I DID actually have a UTI), referred me to a urologist, and then prescribed antibiotics.  So, Monday of last week, I finally had my urologist appointment.  I spent the morning in the doctor’s office who ordered a CAT scan.  Now, generally, this wouldn’t be a problem.  I would run to the office next door, get the scan, and I would be back in within minutes.  But no…I’m me, I’m fat, and you know what that means!  After going next door, I was told that I exceeded the 350lb weight limit of their machine, so I was redirected across town to a clinic that had a machine with a higher weight limit.  Hours and hours later, I had finally received my scan.  Luckily, my kidneys (which were the reason for the scan) were clean, functioning properly, and had no stones, so the next step was to schedule procedure called a Cystoscopy.  This is a procedure where they stick long flexible tube with a video camera up your urethra (aka penis), in order to see if there are any narrow places causing problems, which they would go ahead and fix.  Luckily, I had a great doctor, and he scheduled it for Wednesday, only two days later.  So, I spent Tuesday getting lab work done, and answering the same questions over and over.  Do I have liver, kidney, or heart problems?  No.  Do I have cancer?  No.  Diabetes?  No.  Well, apparently, no one would believe that I didn’t have diabetes.  I was asked at least 15 times over the next 24 hours whether I had diabetes, because you know, you can’t be fat and healthy.  I guess it wasn’t possible for me to have a healthy blood pressure, pulse rate, and no diabetes, even though it was clearly in front of their faces.  But whatever…

During the day on Tuesday, I talked to multiple people, and was asked by a nurse in the surgery center what my height and weight was.  I told her and almost laughed when she responded, “…..Oh.  Well, we are probably going to need you to come in.”  I guess because of my weight, they wanted to get a look at me before the procedure, mainly for the anesthesiologist, so she could get a feel for how much she needed to give me.  So I went in, let her listen to my breathing, look in my throat, and declare me ready to go.

Fast forward to Wednesday…I had to be back in the surgery center at 9:30am.  So, after arriving, I had to change into my wonderful gown, which, as you can guess, didn’t go well.  I got the gown on, but my larger-than-average butt was left uncovered, so I decided to pull a superman and wear a second gown like a cape.  Thankfully, it worked.  I was then told to lay on a table, and was again listened to and checked over by the anesthesiologist.  After being checked over, my nurse decided that my stomach was smothering me and sat me up, even though I told her I was comfortable and would prefer to lay down.  She said she wanted to sit me up so that “my belly won’t bother me”.  Whatever.

Anyways, after all that, I had the procedure, which found that I had two narrow places in my urethra, which they went ahead and fixed.  It felt like I was peeing glass for the first few days, but afterwards, all was well.

So, the lesson for today?  Apparently, fat people are unable to be healthy, without disease, and can’t lay down without being smothered by their giant bellies and man-boobs.  Sucks to be fat right?

My wonderful wife, Crystal, who kept me company up until my procedure and took great care of me afterwards!

Me, before the procedure showing off my IV “bling”.

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Fatass in a skinny car: A buyer’s dilemma

Hey guys!  What’s up?  Happy Sunday to you!  So, first, some exciting news:  This post, you know, the one you are reading right this very minute, is post number 50!  I can’t believe I’ve written for 50 days!  It sure doesn’t feel like it.  So, with that said, let’s get right into it.

As some of you might know, recently, my wife and I bought a new car.  I had a Trailblazer, which I loved, but I drive a lot for my job, plus we live out in the middle of nowhere, so driving a car that required two fill-ups a week seemed to not be such a smart idea.  After a bit of discussion, we decided to go in search of the perfect car, one that was gas efficient, comfortable, and most importantly, could fit our fat asses. 
Now, for most people, buying a new car is a relatively simple process.  You go out, pick a car you want, test drive it, haggle over the price, then buy the thing.  For a fatass, the process is a little more difficult.    Like I said, this go around, the wife and I decided to buy an actual car, instead of an SUV.  In general, I think fatasses should stick to SUV’s.  I mean, they are higher off the ground, which means that instead of working against gravity to pull your fat butt out of the car, you can just kinda roll out, letting the properties of physics work their magic.  They have more space, which is a must have for any person who can’t look straight down and see their toes, or who happen to be taller than average.  Plus, they’re big.  Trust me, when you’re the size of a baby elephant, anything that will make you look smaller is a definite plus.  But sometimes, sadly, the economy fails faster than a flimsy foldout chair under my 400lb. ass, gas prices shoot through the roof, and instead of sitting comfortably like I had planned, I am thrown to the cold, hard ground of reality, wondering how best to recover.  On the bright side, the ailing economy also offered us the ability to get a really low-interest loan, so there’s that, I guess. 
After searching the internet for a while, I had decided that I definitely wanted to look at the Nissan Altima.  It was a sleek looking car, looked pretty roomy online, and the price wasn’t horrendously high.  My wife wanted us to look at a Honda, as she drives a Honda CRV and is now a Honda die-hard if ever there was one.  The thing is, I was a little hesitant when it came to getting a Honda.  You see, her car, the CRV is an “SUV”.  I put it in quotation marks because an SUV it definitely is not.  A compact SUV, maybe, but jeez.  Now, as we know, I am about 6’2”, and I have a jelly belly that would put old Saint Nick to shame.  Me and this CRV just don’t get along.  Crystal, (my wife), drives most of the time when we are together because she is prone to carsickness, which is fine with me because I don’t really like to drive.  But riding in her car is never a good experience.  When I sit in the passenger’s seat, my knees are so smashed into the dash it’s like they are trying to meld with the car and I have to lay my seat back so far just to sit comfortably that it looks like I’m always trying to take a nap while she’s driving.  When I do get to drive, good Lord, it’s even worse.  Again, I have to lay the seat back, but the steering wheel still touches the tops of both of my thighs and if we got in an accident, not only would the wheel smash my manhood into oblivion, the airbag would push through my chest so hard that my manboobs would end up in the back seat.  And speaking of the back seat, I don’t even go there because, #1: I couldn’t buckle the seat belts back there if I had a gun to my head, and #2:  I wouldn’t need a seat belt anyways because my legs would be so wedged into the seat in front of me that I wouldn’t be going anywhere in an accident.  I guess you can’t judge every car a company makes with your experience of just one, but I figured that if I couldn’t even fit comfortably into an SUV made by Honda, there was NO way I would possibly fit into one of their cars.
So on our first few days of car-shopping, we browsed a bunch of different lots, looking at all kinds of cars.  Like I said, with fat people, car shopping gets a little more complicated.  We had to find a car where I would be comfortable in the driver’s seat, the passenger’s seat, and the back seat.  I needed to be able to buckle the seat belts in all of the above, plus, since we will probably be having kids before too long, we needed to be able to fit a rear-facing car seat behind me in whichever seat I was sitting in.  I also needed to be able to have an adult sit behind me in whichever seat I was in.  Plus, I didn’t need to have the top of my head smashed into the ceiling in any of the seats in which I was required to sit.  Quite a few requirements, and trust me, it’s hilarious to see the look of distress in a salesman’s eyes when you rattle of this list of requirements.  You know that inside, they are sighing and thinking, “Great…another customer from Hell…”  We test-drove a Hyundai Sonata (ok, but a little tight in all areas), a Toyota Camry (I liked it but my wife didn’t), and we also looked at a Dodge Charger.  Now, this was a car!  The inside was huge, the car was freakin’ amazing, and this particular one had a really good price…then, we saw how many mpg’s it got.   It was no better than my Trailblazer, so after telling myself that it would be stupid to trade one gas hog for another, we drove to the next lot to see what they had to offer.   
Here, I finally got to see a Nissan Altima.  They had a really great black one with a super nice leather interior, and I got really excited, thinking we had found our next car.  So, before I could even get in to test drive the thing, I had to look and see how I could maneuver my way into the car without hitting the car next to us with the door.  I mean, have you seen how close together they park those things?  I almost laughed when the guy was like, “Yeah, get on in and see if you like it!”, because I was trying to debate whether I should ask him to move it first or just suck in my stomach and hope for the best.  I decided on option #2, wrapping my hand around the edge of the door where it came in contact with the car next to us.  Well, it was a waste of time, to say the least.  After contorting like some kind of circus performer to try to get in, I didn’t even need to test drive it or sit in any other seats to see if it would work.  It was another case of groin-mashing steering wheel, and I did my best to get out of the car without either ruining the paint-job on the car next to us or flashing my ass crack to everyone in the lot.  So, after being failed by the car that I loved, I finally gave into Crystal and decided it was time to check out a Honda. 
The salesman took us over to the section that had all of the shiny new Civics and Accords, and I had to admit, they were nice.  Since the Civics were cheaper, we made the salesman start there, and I climbed into one, actually pleasantly surprised by the roominess in the driver’s side.  We test drove the car, and both Crystal and I really liked it, not to mention it got about a bajillion miles per gallon, but we had a slight problem…there was no way in Hell that we would get a rear-facing car seat, much less another adult human being in the back seat behind us.  So, we climbed out of the Civic, and walked over to the Accords.  Now, the Accord is a nice car, but they are definitely a little pricey.  Truly, though, after climbing into the Accord and test driving it, I didn’t care.  THIS was the car.  I had plenty of room in all of the seats, had no problem with any of the seat belts, there was tons of room in the back, and the ceiling of the car was a good 6 inches above my head!  I don’t know how Honda makes a car that is bigger than its SUV, but somehow, the Accord is just that, not to mention that I get between 350-400 miles per tank of gas, which is more than double what I got in the Trailblazer.
So yeah, my wife was right (as usual), and we got a 2011 Honda Accord.  It was a bit more money than we wanted to spend, but in the end, comfort won out.  I have only two complaints with this car; #1: the part of the seat belt where it buckles digs into my love handle when I’m driving, and #2: my shirt ALWAYS sticks to the seat, so I am constantly showing my ass to the world whenever I get out of the car, but hey, if those are the worst things about it, then I guess that’s alright.
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Say Cheese! Mmmm…Cheese…

Hey guys!  It’s a picture-perfect Sunday outside, and being Sunday, that means it’s also time for my weekly “Big” post!  And speaking of pictures, that is what today’s post is about!  Pictures!  Also, on a side note, I went and saw Paranorman last night, and it was great, so you should go see it. 



But yeah, pictures.  The bane of every fatty’s existence, right?  I mean, who wants to look back at the wedding that you attended last year looking like a whale on legs or have that photo of you chowing down on a turkey leg from three Thanksgivings ago flashed in your face every time you turn around?  Not me, but hey, that’s why I got my degree in Photography.  That way, I can be behind the camera and not in front of it.  Okay, not really, but it’s a great excuse as to why you are always the one taking pictures, rather than being the one having their picture taken. 






Now, don’t get me wrong.  I LOVE cheesing it up in front of the camera.  I have about a billion pictures of myself floating around, and there’s nothing wrong with most of them.  It’s those very special pictures that annoy me, you know, the ones that get taken when you’re bending over and your butt crack is hanging out, or when the angle is bad and you look about 437lbs. heavier than your really are.  Or, you lived in the 80’s and you had some awful Glamour Shots done.  And by the way, the Glamour Shots comment refers to skinny bitches as well as fatasses…no one looks good in those things.

But seriously, sometimes pictures suck.  An acquaintance of mine recently got married and has been posting some of his wedding pictures on Facebook.  By acquaintance, I mean that we had some classes together in college and never really became friends, but I knew his name, so I added him.  You know you have about 800 or so of those people on YOUR Facebook too!  Anyways, his wedding looked amazing.  He is a tall, skinny guy, always struck me as kinda hipster, but not so hipster that it was annoying.  He had the skinny pants, the Toms, and the weird hairdo, but it suited him.  Anyways, for his wedding day, he and his groomsmen wore Toms (of course), and they had bow ties and parted, slicked back hair.  His wife was extremely elegant in a half-veil that partially covered her face, and so far, looking at the pictures of them, they both looked amazing.  They were able to do all these fun wedding shots, stuff like, them looking through a picture frame, and holding up paper mustaches and lips, and all kinds of other cutesy stuff.  The thing is, fat people can’t really do that.  If my wife and I tried to take a picture of us holding up a picture frame and looking through it, we would have to have one that was about 6’x6’, because I wouldn’t be able to squeeze my left man-boob into anything smaller than that, and NO ONE wants a picture of my man-boob pleasantly accentuated by an elegant gilded picture frame.  Well, maybe SOMEONE does, but we won’t go there.

Anyways, apparently vintage is the new black, so everywhere I look, I see all of these couples taking these amazing pictures looking all awesome and vintage.  Yeah, for fatties…not so much.  I remember when my wife and I got married…one of the shots we took was the one where everyone jumped off the ground and we took the picture while in midair.  I remember thinking, “REALLY?”  This guy wants me, while wearing a tux, to jump up in the air so he can take a picture of my boobs slamming into my face?  Yeah.  And we did it about 12 times.  He didn’t offer to take any vintage shots of us.  You know, standing against an old brick wall, or playing around in a gross old Laundromat.  Of course, that was 4 years ago, and maybe vintage wasn’t as “in” back then.  I don’t know. 

One of my really good friends, Hanna Salonen, is an amazing photographer, (go visit her blog at, it’s awesome!), and my wife and I keep saying that after we lose weight, we will go visit her to have our pictures done.  The thing is, we want all those cute pictures, but people would look at them and go, “Who are those fatasses covering up the cute couple?”  We don’t want that to happen, so we just keep putting it off.  Hmmm…maybe someday.  Hanna, can we schedule an appointment for 10 years in the future?  Maybe that’ll give us some time to lose weight.  Yeah, right. 

Anyways, it’s not only professional pictures that fatties hate.  It’s all those dreaded family get-togethers where everyone has a camera and you can’t get away unless you pretend you are stuck in the bathroom with a massive case of diarrhea.  And sometimes, that doesn’t even do the trick.  You can always find us fatties sitting on the couch, maybe holding a pillow in front of our stomachs or walking around with a sheet over our head like some deranged Casper the Ghost in order to hide our massive bodies from the awful all-seeing lens of the camera.  Of course, sometimes, the opposite is true, and by some mercy of God, the camera makes us look skinnier.  It’s as rare as a photo of the Loch Ness Monster, but it happens. 
And what about getting pictures in public?  You’re walking around the mall with some girlfriends and someone sees a photo booth and is like “OMG!  We like, totallyhave to get our pictures made!  It’ll be so funny we’ll be ROTFL!”  You inwardly sigh and think to yourself, “Well SMH and call me a fatass”, because you know the pain of utter humiliation is seconds away when your friends realize that you can take a picture of you in the photo booth, and a picture of them in the photo booth, but a picture of you AND them in the photo booth is a physical impossibility due the size of your thighs and the tiny seat provided inside.  And don’t even get me started on those “Old Time” photo places, where you can dress up like some 1800’s man or woman who, firstly, wouldn’t be fat, and secondly, wouldn’t know what a camera was if it bit them in the butt.  I mean, I know that sometimes the clothing provided is backless or open, but still, you can’t fit a 5xl frame into a size Medium shirt, I don’t care HOW open it is in the back!  So yeah, I’ve never been able to dress up like an old time cowboy and have my picture taken.  What a sad life. 

But also, let’s not forget when you are 6’2” and 400lbs and all your friends are 5’ 4” and 125lbs, and everyone decides to take pictures together.  You end up looking like some giant beast who invaded the group of pretty people, a disgusting photo-bomber if there ever was one.  And seriously, who wants to be that person?  Not I. 
 Anyways, I guess that’s all for today.  Until next time, watch out for rogue family photographers and always keep a pillow handy for a quick cover-up!  Also, for those of you who don’t know, you can go like my Facebook page at! See you guys later!
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Summertime, Summertime, Sum, Sum, Summertime…

Hey guys!  So, I know it’s Saturday, but I am going to my hometown to visit family this weekend, so my Sunday “Big post”, for this week, will be on Saturday.  Good news for you guys, as you get to read this awesomeness a day early!  Bad news, no pictures.  But, I’ll edit this post later when I have time and add some in.  This week, I think we will discuss summer, seeing as how the last few days have been pleasant, almost as though Summer has nearly died, but is hanging onto the last thread of life like some crotchety old man who you wish would just give it up and kick the bucket already.

Summer means a lot of different things to different people.  Kids see it as their break from school, a time to run and play and generally act like the little tyrants that they are, usually unsupervised and running the street like a pack of wild dogs, only, that is, if they can spare a second and tear themselves away from their phone.  Old people see summer as a time when they can finally kick off the blankets and sweaters and shuffle outside to let the sun beat down on their balding heads and sagging skin.  Skinny bitches view summer as a time to rejoice.  Sunbathing in their barely-there bikinis, running their charitable 5K’s, and spending every free moment baking their toned, fit bodies in the glow of the sun.  Fatasses…well, they have a bit of a different view of summer.

I, like probably 99.9% of the other fatasses out there look at the calendar and view the months of May-September with an unparalleled horror.  These are trying times for fatasses, times where strength, determination, and powder (for the inner thighs, you know) are the keys to success. 

You see, heat doesn’t do good things to bodies with piles and piles of extra fat stored all over like some exotic pink mountain range.  What usually happens when you heat up fat (aka oil, lard, butter, Crisco, etc) in a frying pan?  It sizzles, pops, and sometimes catches on fire.  Ever heard of spontaneous combustion?  That charred outline lying in the bed or burned into the sidewalk was probably once some poor, fat soul who had to leave the blessed cool of their house to get some necessary item…you know, toilet paper, water, candy bars.  Things that you couldn’t possibly survive without. 

Have you ever rubbed two sticks together really fast?  What happened?  Well, if you were in the Boy Scouts, they caught on fire.  If not, you probably just gave up and broke them in half, weeping in frustration, but that’s beside the point.  The science behind rubbing two things together to make fire is exactly why fat people don’t run.  It’s not that they can’t, but as much as their inner thighs rub together, a fire would be nearly instantaneous.  And believe me, the last thing a fatty wants to deal with is a crotch fire burning up all their emergency candy bar money. 

Then there’s the whole sweating thing.  Fatasses are like seals (and don’t you dare say, “nu-uh, more like walruses, if you ask me”, because I will come through this screen and sit on your skinny bitch ass, you just try me!).  ANYWAYS, yes.  Like adorable baby SEALS.  We have an extra coat that keeps us warm, even when we don’t want it.  Who knows, maybe obesity is the next step on the evolutionary ladder, an adaptation preparing us for the next ice age caused by global warming.  If so, HA HA all you skinny bitches!  Good luck with your fashionable little North Face jacket (that I couldn’t get in my size if my life depended on it)!  I’ll just chill comfortably on this block of ice while you shiver and shake your brains into a hemorrhage.  Anyways, in present times, you know, the ones that don’t look like a post-2012 apocalyptic ice age, my seal-like extra coat does its job just a little too well.  I mean, sweating’s all well and good for staying cool and regulating your body temperature, but when I get out of my car in the dead of summer with my ass looking like I backwards-pissed myself, that is NOT a good thing.  I already have enough of an image problem without a giant puddle of ass sweat dripping down my pants. 

Then, there’s the sweat running down my face, burning my eyes, and, if you are female, or, well, a very special male, ruining the make-up that you carefully applied only five minutes earlier.  Not to mention the sweat absorbed by your hair, making you look like you just stepped out of some body-odor smelling shower from Hell.  Yeah, overall, NOT a pleasant situation. 

Then, there are the summer festivities:  pool parties, water and amusement parks, concerts and cookouts in the park.  While the average fatass would enjoy all of these things, they avoid them like the plague.  “Why?”, you may ask.  Well, let me enlighten you.

First, the pool.  This involves the fatty first having to leave the ice fortress that their home has become to look through every store in town, unsuccessfully, for proper bathing attire.  For women, it is probably a modest one-piece with a swim skirt in the darkest color possible.  For men, a decent pair of trunks and a comfy tee.  For old men, a speedo in extra extra extra large.  Now, not only are these things near impossible to find, but when they ARE found, are in the most hideous color and pattern and usually cost about a bajillion bucks.  Then comes the act of actually having to wear the thing.  In public.  For guys, I guess it’s a little better.  You can get away with wearing a shirt in most places, but don’t plan on getting out of the pool, because the second you do, the shirt sticks to you like a second skin and makes black hole-sized sucking sounds with any attempt to pull it away.  If you get out of the water, you might as well have just gone shirtless, because everyone’s gonna know the exact topography of your fat rolls, anyways. 

For women, they have to get in slowly, feigning shock at the cold water, when in all actuality knowing that they would be knocked out by their double-d’s if they dared to dive into the water like they wished they could.  You see, I’ve learning over the years that fat floats, and though fatties won’t have to worry about sinking any time soon, a buoyant boob to the face is a totally different matter. 

Next, there’s the amusement parks.  Standing in hot, mile long lines for a ride that you probably can’t even fit your fat ass into…sounds like my idea of a good time.  How about yours?  I quit going to amusement parks when I was about 16.  This was when I realized that I had become too fat, and faced my first “can’t fit” humiliation.  I was in line for a ride called the “Hellevator”.  It went straight up, then fell back towards Earth with nausea-inducing speed.  I made it through the line, sat down, and had an assistant help me fasten my harness.  Only that didn’t happen.  The straps weren’t long enough, or, in the politically correct verbage used by the attendant, I was “too broad”.  Well, that’s okay.  A girl got her foot cut off on the same ride a few years later, so it could’ve been worse, huh?  Anyways, that experience ruined amusement parks for me.  I haven’t been back since. 

Finally, there is all the other evening-based summer festivities:  BBQ’s, Tiki-Parties, Luau’s, concerts…the list goes on.  Fatasses hate these for a variety of reasons, but the main ones are as follows:

First, mosquitoes and ticks.  They are drawn to the sugary blood of fatasses like pigs to slop.  All I want while sitting in the miserable hot is to be made more miserable by every blood-sucking parasite within a 20 mile radius.  Then, after being eaten alive and made to starve while the glorious aromas of steak and ribs washes over you for three hours, you have to eat tiny amounts of food so as not to be judged by all the beautiful skinny bitches with their heat-addled brains that are sure to be in attendance.  And finally, the folding camp chairs.  Squeezing a 400lb body into a chair with a weight capacity of 200lbs will usually end in disaster.  If you don’t understand, refer to one of my previous Sunday “Big Posts” titled “Furniture Follies”.  It will explain all you need to know. 

So, I guess that brings me to the end.  Skinny bitches, a word of warning:  Next time you feel the urge to shout out “Oh, I love summer and can’t wait until it’s 115 degrees outside!”, don’t be surprised when every fatass within hearing distance walks, waddles, or rolls over and slaps you.  You deserve it.  Anyways, that’s all for me, so until next time, you’ll find me lounging in my ice-cold cave of a house, praying that fall will hurry on its way and all those old, fat men will finally decide to put away the speedos and don some actual clothes.  Adios, amigos!       
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