| SOCIETY HAS
MADE MY ASS FAT 
by Jeff Kay I’m trying to watch what I eat. I can’t adequately convey how those words make me cringe. They conjure up visions of middle-aged Garth Brooks-worshiping, camping supplies-coveting suburbanites hollering at their kids in Pizza Hut to look around and see if anybody else is licking their salt shakers. Those people watch what they eat, not me. Hell, I’m the guy that prides himself on being able to load in baskets of deep-fried breading encased cheese wands and endless tumblers of thick British ales with no noticeable effect on the bottom line. I was the one in Jr. High who could make like a human corndog chipper right before crawling into bed, and wake up light on his feet and ready for the day. Gastronomical laws were made to be broken, baby, and I had a license to swill! Unfortunately, however, those long-term investments have now started paying big dividends on the back end, and my ass has come into full blossom. And it’s a frightening sight to behold. Truthfully, I never really thought too much about it until recently. It was functional and stayed out of the way, and what more can you ask of an ass, really? But then little things started happening, and I began to get concerned. For instance, the bin that contains my sized jeans at the store used to be at a comfortable chest level, and over time I’ve noticed it getting lower and lower on the wall. A year ago I was forced to drop to one knee, and now I have to literally lie down in the floor to find my size. Kids point and snicker at the “fat man who fell down in pants.” And occasionally I offer them the rare opportunity to add, “And he’s crying!!” as I struggle breathlessly back to my feet, tears of shame streaming down my puffing cheeks. It’s truly a sad state of affairs. I doubt even Alan Greenspan has witnessed such rapid expansion. Indeed, if one were to audit the Target computer database of all my underwear purchases since, say 1995, it would undoubtedly reveal a sharp upward spike in waist size that would cause most people to gasp. And if someone were to care enough to track the progress with a chart of some sort, the line would undoubtedly resemble a support cable on a radio transmitter tower. How could this happen to a man that, until recently, was roughly the size of your average Black Crowe? Well, that’s a question I’ve been turning over in my head for quite some time, and I can tell you but one thing for sure -- it’s not my fault. Granted, I ate mostly trash for a couple of decades and exerted myself physically only when self-preservation was an issue, or the possibility of snacks/orgasms presented itself. But I’ve been blessed with an inherited metabolism that burns out all the bad stuff while I lounge. It’s a gift (“to be cherished”) that was passed on to me by a pair of skinny spinster great-aunts on my mother’s side. Or so I’ve been told. Yes, because of my much-celebrated quick idle I’ve never had to concern myself with such mundane matters as weight and health. It’s always been that way, and is supposed to always be, according to casual family history -- which makes the recent developments out back all the more suspicious. Of course, I now know that I’ve been lied to, that my buttocks and I have been dealt a dirty hand from the bottom of the deck. I guess it’s not enough that I was stricken early with the standard-issue potbelly that usually doesn’t explode from the front of men until they’re approaching their fortieth birthday. That alone would be distressing enough, but at least giant, distended guts are socially acceptable in certain circles. To some they are even a sign of prosperity, and I admit that I don’t think they look that bad if handled in a tasteful manner. In fact, many successful people in my office subscribe to the “don’t hide it, decorate it” theory of gut maintenance. Khakis and a colorful untucked Hawaiian shirt seem to do the trick nicely. But, no matter how hard you try, there’s no dressing up a fat ass. I’ve tried everything, and it invariably screams: band teacher! Or fast-food manager! Or webmaster! I don’t know if I can live with myself knowing that people are slapping such labels on me. I’m cool, dammit! And so, reluctantly, I’ve been trying to watch what I eat. I order chicken instead of a burger. A side salad instead of fries. Blah, blah, blah. I disgust myself. Recently I’ve also begun enduring paralyzing nightmares featuring Dan Aykroyd repeatedly backing out of the Driving Miss Daisy limousine with his huge loveseat ass. This vision obviously scared me more than I realized the first time I saw it years ago. I remember laughing about it with my friends, back in the days before I was sporting a trouser ottoman of my own, but I now realize I was viewing my own ghastly destiny in that movie. It’s a time-released horror film. The Exorcist is child’s play compared to that deceptive and sly piece of work, which preys on the primal fears of men across decades. |
