toil, toil, toil ’til i get sick, i try reverse but i’m not that quick

Call me old fashioned, but I like it when I see a fat girl who’s not ashamed of her body, who flaunts her girth as if she’s proud of it, as if she ate all those Twinkies on purpose and with the sole intent of gaining eight hundred pounds of buttery, larded sex appeal.

She says things like “real women have curves” and “more cushion for the pushin’,” her greasy pores all the while staining the spandex shorts she ought not be wearing as the glare from the sun reflects off the bottom of the belly creeping ever so gently from beneath her tank top, blinding the other shoppers at the outlet mall who knew full well the price they might have to pay for discount Liz Claiborne cargo pants yet chanced it anyway.

I like it when a fat girl proclaims that she’s big and beautiful, that those skinny model girls are the abnormal and unnatural and unattractive ones, that it takes a real man to love a real woman.

You go girl.

But you’re wrong.

Very wrong. Dead wrong, as if from a heart attack or complications from type two diabetes, or possibly even choking on a whole chicken fried steak you forgot to chew. In fact, you could not be more wrong if your next five or six grilled cheese sandwiches with mayo depended on it.