admin
22 December 2023
On a recent trip to San Francisco I ended up face-to-flab with what, in my humble opinion, is possibly the most hideous evil ever to confront USA, Inc. It's worse even than the current crop of boogey-men vying to outdo one another in their quest to flush our once-great republic down the proverbial drain.
I'm speaking, of course, about low-cut jeans and belly shirts.
Surely you've witnessed the horror of this latest fashion trend being crammed down the once-bulimic throats of our increasingly plump population. Jeans cut ever-so-slightly above the pubic area, and t-shirts cut barely below the breastal region. Maybe Schick or Gillette are behind this trend, considering how much additional shaving is necessary to actually wear these pants in public.
Here's a quick Yahweh fashion tip: if you can see razor-stubble and/or under-boob, your clothes are too small.
Now, don't get me wrong. "Hooray for Boobies" is one of Yahweh's personal slogans. Along with "Resist or Serve" and "I am a little black rain cloud." But notice that I said "boobies", not bellies. The last thing I need to see when I leave the house is all 20+ sizes of a girl who thinks she has the physique of a Catholic altar boy, instead of the circus freak flab she's actually carting around.
It's enough to make you miss the days when the worst a pair of jeans could produce was a bad case of camel toe.
Jumpin' Jesus on a pogo stick! What the fuck are these women thinking? We all know, in our heart-of-hearts, there are only two groups of women who can realistically fit into these clothes: supermodels and concentration camp victims not lucky enough to make Mr. Schindler's list. Yet, by some sick, sadistic twist of fate, it's the women who belong to neither of these groups that always seem to occupy my field of vision. My entire field of vision, if you know what I mean.
Ladies, do you not own a mirror? And if you do, is it just aimed at your helium-filled heads? The better to inspect your over-tweezed eyebrows, I'm sure. Well, gals, here's another Yahweh fashion tip: guys don't give a shit about eyebrows. And if you don't start pointing the mirror downward, toward those under-worked abs of zinc, I've got another "M" word to point at your head. And it's spelled M-A-G-N-U-M.
Hell, if I wanted to see fat chicks trying to squeeze themselves into too-tight, too-small, and too-trendy outfits, I'd just go to sorority rush week at any college campus across this super-sized fruited plain of ours.
Finally, being on vacation means spending a lot of time in airports. And that means a lot of downtime watching CNN. Ironically, at the same time they were broadcasting a story about fat people trying to sue McDonald's, I was watching about 200 pounds of Big Mac and Special Sauce waddle its way across the terminal, unable to sit down because the seats are made for people whose ass can be contained in one Zip Code.
Here's what I think about that: If fat people are allowed to sue McDonald's for making them fat, then I should be allowed to sue McDonald's for making them fat. Because I'm the one who has to watch that fat slowly jiggle itself out of an ensemble that is God only knows how many sizes too small. That alone ought to be worth $4-5 million in emotional duress. Easy.
Someone get Johnnie Cochran on the phone: "If the clothes don't fit, holy shit!"
I'm speaking, of course, about low-cut jeans and belly shirts.
Surely you've witnessed the horror of this latest fashion trend being crammed down the once-bulimic throats of our increasingly plump population. Jeans cut ever-so-slightly above the pubic area, and t-shirts cut barely below the breastal region. Maybe Schick or Gillette are behind this trend, considering how much additional shaving is necessary to actually wear these pants in public.
Here's a quick Yahweh fashion tip: if you can see razor-stubble and/or under-boob, your clothes are too small.
Now, don't get me wrong. "Hooray for Boobies" is one of Yahweh's personal slogans. Along with "Resist or Serve" and "I am a little black rain cloud." But notice that I said "boobies", not bellies. The last thing I need to see when I leave the house is all 20+ sizes of a girl who thinks she has the physique of a Catholic altar boy, instead of the circus freak flab she's actually carting around.
It's enough to make you miss the days when the worst a pair of jeans could produce was a bad case of camel toe.
Jumpin' Jesus on a pogo stick! What the fuck are these women thinking? We all know, in our heart-of-hearts, there are only two groups of women who can realistically fit into these clothes: supermodels and concentration camp victims not lucky enough to make Mr. Schindler's list. Yet, by some sick, sadistic twist of fate, it's the women who belong to neither of these groups that always seem to occupy my field of vision. My entire field of vision, if you know what I mean.
Ladies, do you not own a mirror? And if you do, is it just aimed at your helium-filled heads? The better to inspect your over-tweezed eyebrows, I'm sure. Well, gals, here's another Yahweh fashion tip: guys don't give a shit about eyebrows. And if you don't start pointing the mirror downward, toward those under-worked abs of zinc, I've got another "M" word to point at your head. And it's spelled M-A-G-N-U-M.
Hell, if I wanted to see fat chicks trying to squeeze themselves into too-tight, too-small, and too-trendy outfits, I'd just go to sorority rush week at any college campus across this super-sized fruited plain of ours.
Finally, being on vacation means spending a lot of time in airports. And that means a lot of downtime watching CNN. Ironically, at the same time they were broadcasting a story about fat people trying to sue McDonald's, I was watching about 200 pounds of Big Mac and Special Sauce waddle its way across the terminal, unable to sit down because the seats are made for people whose ass can be contained in one Zip Code.
Here's what I think about that: If fat people are allowed to sue McDonald's for making them fat, then I should be allowed to sue McDonald's for making them fat. Because I'm the one who has to watch that fat slowly jiggle itself out of an ensemble that is God only knows how many sizes too small. That alone ought to be worth $4-5 million in emotional duress. Easy.
Someone get Johnnie Cochran on the phone: "If the clothes don't fit, holy shit!"
artid
1578
Old Image
6_1_fattie.jpg
issue
vol 6 - issue 01 (sep 2003)
section
stories