I found this in Mail Call today, and wished I had a fat ass to roll around on while I laughed…except not, because that’d be embarrassing and sad: “I am asking all restaurants here in the Hagerstown and surrounding areas to please honor cards from people who have had gastric bypass surgery. There is an increase in the number of people having this surgery, and we are given a card to show when we go to a restaurant that asks the facility to let us use the senior or children’s menu. I understand some restaurants will not honor these cards, so I am asking you to reconsider this, as after surgery, we have to really watch the amount of food we eat…” Good point, Porky. You know what else would be great? If I had a card verifying that I’m an alcoholic and restaurants should use the discretion I don’t have for me. Then, if all else fails, they could turn a blind eye when I go streaking through their parking lot, or call my ex sobbing about what an emotionally abusive bitch she is.

They call us adults for a reason; primarily, we’re expected to make our own decisions. I can’t blame anyone other than myself for mistakes like unprotected sex, alcohol poisoning, or the back tattoo of James Earl Jones that seemed so fucking cool at the time; and you can’t expect someone else to tell you what you can and can’t eat. Just put the Bloomin’ Onion down, fatty. If it’s really so difficult that you require supervision, you’re problem isn’t so much obesity, but a deeper disorder which you ought to seek therapy for. I realize people have their weaknesses, and I’m not the type to be needlessly insensitive (the funny thing is, I actually am,) but the double standard that exists here is beyond fucked up.

Take the following statements as an illustration:

A) “Hey Ted, you really need to cool it on the drinking. We think you might have a problem.”
B) “Hey Ted, you ought to quit smoking man. It’s bad on your lungs and we don’t want you getting cancer.”
C) “Hey Ted, you really need to stop being so fat. You embarrass us in public and we all had to put locks on our refrigerators.

Unlike the initial two, statement C appears to be thoughtless and insensitive. Why? Because too many whiny assholes have tried to convince us that, contrary to what my mother and health teacher have taught me, the amount and type of food we eat doesn’t correlate directly to the size of our waistlines. Of course it doesn’t, dip-shit; just as when my liver finally dies, I won’t have a fucking clue what could have caused that either.

Now I don’t give a shit if you’re a lard-ass…In fact I’ve got friends of all shapes and sizes; My problem involves self-pitying douche-bags who can’t get over their own hurdles, so instead focus on the problems of others. Overeating is a problem, but really no more or less than smoking, drinking, pill popping, unsafe sexual practices, or kleptomania. One third of the US population is either overweight or obese, and only three percent of Americans have a thyroid condition. This leads me to believe that out of every thirty fat people who tell me they can’t help it, three are telling the truth.

People need to own up to their own fucking issues and stop justifying their behavior with petty excuses like, “I can’t control myself.” Yes you can, and you choose not to. I have the utmost respect for a fat person who can stuff their face, stand tall and admit, “I like to fucking eat, and I will reap the consequences, thank you very much!” For those of you who can’t make this realization, stop asking for diet menus, special exemptions, and nutritional information on your Big Macs. Face it, you know the salads going to be better for you, but you don’t want that fucking salad, now do you, Tubby? Stop eating or stop bitching…I can’t deal with both.