I'm no skinny Minnie, not a rail, nor a wisp. I'm big-boned, plus sized, hefty, rotund, gravitationally challenged, porky, sloppy, spherical, obese. Gotta Dunlop where my stomach done lopped over my belt, a galley muscle, a sheriff's belly - I named him Bubba. Call me whatever you like, as long as you don't call me late for dinner.
Can't blame my metabolism-it's roaring along fiercely. Maybe I've let myself go. Or maybe I just ate that piece of pie you wanted, had another hundred plates of ribs, an entire Thai restaurant, a glacier of praline ice cream, and I'm carrying it around for a souvenir.
I was taught to clean my plate, and by God, I did it. I was a good boy, did a good job, even finished my liver. Unless you're brave, come supper-time, don't stand between me and the food. I am not Vlad the Impaler or Olaf the Bold, but Dave, Despoiler of Buffets. I don't look like Ken, I'm saying. They won't use my face to advertise soda pop or Nikes -- no Enquirer headlines about J. Lo wanting my baby.
You don't have to believe it, but I'm actually good at dieting - I can lose twenty pounds easy, as long as I'm ready to get thirty back. My body knows to store up for the next famine. I mean, humans weren't made for a place where you can get all the butter, side-meat and sweets you want, and a day's work means a day at a keyboard. The part of me that says, "why don't you have a little more, here with the antelope dead and who knows when the next one will come?" that used to be useful. When most people made their livings with their muscles, a figure like mine was a status symbol. Fat cats, the bosses were. No wonder the long-starved Japanese love to watch the Sumo wrestlers eat.
So, yeah, I'll joke about it, and I don't care if you laugh. But I'm not stupid, greedy, lazy, or slow. I don't do all my reading from menus, have all my dreams about roast beef and mashed potatoes. I mean, it's my waistline, not my soul.