Complete the formula: ___________ + woman = _________.
Woman + woman = good time? Woman + dog = even better time?
Perhaps, but the truth is, there is no right answer because it's not an equation – it's a statement: Plus woman. Take a normal, healthy member of the female species, add on another eight stone of excess blubber and what do you get? Plus woman. I made this startling discovery while in TK Maxx, the Wal-Mart of discount designer stores. I shan't go into my reasons for being in such an odious emporium, but I'd like to state for my girlfriend's benefit that I wasn't trying to source her Christmas present on the cheap. Not in there, and certainly not in the Plus section. I might be on Jobseeker's Allowance, but I'd rather resort to selling drugs to avoid having to gift wrap something from TK Maxx, and not just because I enjoy selling drugs.
I was always taught at school that the opposite of plus was minus, but in TK Maxx it's small. Small woman then medium woman then plus woman. Why plus? Why not large or humongous or grossly obese? Why not so-fucking-fat-the-rail-is-bending-under-the-weight-of-their-oversized-clothes? There's nothing super about being supersized and there are no plus points to being plus. Did it ever occur to anyone that perhaps there wouldn't be such an obesity epidemic in this country if we had the balls to tell it like it is; a spade a spade, a hoe a hoe and a fat fucking ho a fat fucking ho. Instead we deal in neutered, politically correct euphemisms like 'plus' or 'extra'. Such 'voluptuous' 'bubbly' people even get their own clothing catalogues with names like 'Just Be', an abbreviation, presumably, of Just Be A Big Fucking Heifer If You Like Then And See How Happy You Are Without Resorting To Comfort Eating. It may seem like I'm having a go at fat people because they're an easy target – a target that's impossible to miss in fact, like firing a tranquilliser dart into an elephant's arse at three paces – but I'm not the only one. 'I don't think there's enough stigma,' noted Ricky Gervais in a rare moment of solemnity. 'I laugh about being fat but I should be ashamed.' Even the fully formed members of the fat club are in agreement with me on this one it would seem.
Of course, if I were obese, I must concede that I would not be penning this impassioned piece. No, I'd probably be going for my fourth plateful at Jimmy Chung's right now, just as if I were black I'd be liberally dropping the nigga word into every sentence. But I'm not – fat or black – and thus I find myself railing against rotundness whilst double-checking that there are no African-Americans in the room before singing along to 2Pac's 'Strictly 4 My N.I.G.G.A.Z' in an attempt at making me feel marginally less white.
I am currently a svelte 11½ stone, my girlfriend an even svelter 7½. Combined, we still weigh four stone less than my last cellmate. No prizes for guessing who slept on the top bunk. With the only fat component my girlfriend and I have between us consisting of my fat cock, weight isn't an issue that should be concerning us. And yet everywhere we've gone this week, Fat People have been following us. It's like we've been under surveillance by the Fat Police, although not very covert surveillance, admittedly. We walk into Starbucks and there is an enormous (and I mean enormous, not fat) bitch wedged into one of the armchairs next to us. Pizza Express? Some bingo-winged blubber-bum enveloping a chair at the adjacent table. The preponderance of lard has the effect of making me want to order a skinny latte or a healthy salad, but why? I'm not the one who needs to count my calories, and I'm certainly not gonna attempt to count theirs – not without an adding machine anyway.
The worst offender to insult my thin fascist ideals was encountered in the Job Centre. I might be unemployed, but we all have jobs to do in this world. She had a job getting into her chair while I had a job not collapsing on the floor in spasms of laughter. After spending eight months inside this year, I emerged into the free world to discover that not a whole lot had changed. The earth still orbited the sun, the Aberdeen team still couldn't score and Jordan was still regularly swallowing her bodyweight in sperm. The only thing that does seem to have changed during my hiatus is the fat quota – now there's more of it on everyone. Obesity is insidious. No one wakes up to discover that they've gained six stone in their sleep and their PJs now resemble cycling shorts. We were all thin once. A few of us still are. I might be at the wrong end of my twenties; I might even have a few grey hairs (but I wouldn't know as I shave my balls religiously to prevent the horror of ever having to find out), but at least I've still got my thinness. Mind you, if you'd spent the last eight months subsisting on Rice Crispies and whiling away your evenings doing sit-ups because there was nothing else to do, you probably wouldn't be looking so bad either.
Scientists have now pioneered a new type of surgery that takes all the excess fat from female hips and thighs and inserts it where it's needed most – the breasts. It sounds like a great idea in theory, but in practice if you tried that with some of the plus women I've seen lately, they'd end up with double Z-cups, tits that spanned time zones. There's stacked, and then there's top-heavy. All women would like to have bigger breasts, but not at the expense of having to wear a rucksack full of bricks to prevent themselves from toppling over.
You know, I could probably continue blogging in this vein for another 500 words, dropping in more fattist jokes about the fattest members of society, and yeah you might laugh as you read them, but what's the point? It's not you I'm addressing, it's you – yeah you, shovelling pizza into your fat face like an anaconda swallowing a stray African child. It's you I want to make laugh. I want to make you laugh so hard you puke; puke up all that calorific dough and cheese, laugh so hard you spew yourself bulimic. Perhaps then the next time I go for a Starbucks or Pizza Express, I'll be able to enjoy my victuals without having my view obscured or my conscience troubled by the thought that one day that might be me standing up to pay my bill and taking the chair with me.
Two minuses might make a plus, but two pluses certainly don't make a minus, no matter what TK Maxx might assert to the contrary. Or to put it in formulaic terms, plus woman plus plus woman = 2plus woman = too much woman by far.
Woman + woman = good time? Woman + dog = even better time?
Perhaps, but the truth is, there is no right answer because it's not an equation – it's a statement: Plus woman. Take a normal, healthy member of the female species, add on another eight stone of excess blubber and what do you get? Plus woman. I made this startling discovery while in TK Maxx, the Wal-Mart of discount designer stores. I shan't go into my reasons for being in such an odious emporium, but I'd like to state for my girlfriend's benefit that I wasn't trying to source her Christmas present on the cheap. Not in there, and certainly not in the Plus section. I might be on Jobseeker's Allowance, but I'd rather resort to selling drugs to avoid having to gift wrap something from TK Maxx, and not just because I enjoy selling drugs.
I was always taught at school that the opposite of plus was minus, but in TK Maxx it's small. Small woman then medium woman then plus woman. Why plus? Why not large or humongous or grossly obese? Why not so-fucking-fat-the-rail-is-bending-under-the-weight-of-their-oversized-clothes? There's nothing super about being supersized and there are no plus points to being plus. Did it ever occur to anyone that perhaps there wouldn't be such an obesity epidemic in this country if we had the balls to tell it like it is; a spade a spade, a hoe a hoe and a fat fucking ho a fat fucking ho. Instead we deal in neutered, politically correct euphemisms like 'plus' or 'extra'. Such 'voluptuous' 'bubbly' people even get their own clothing catalogues with names like 'Just Be', an abbreviation, presumably, of Just Be A Big Fucking Heifer If You Like Then And See How Happy You Are Without Resorting To Comfort Eating. It may seem like I'm having a go at fat people because they're an easy target – a target that's impossible to miss in fact, like firing a tranquilliser dart into an elephant's arse at three paces – but I'm not the only one. 'I don't think there's enough stigma,' noted Ricky Gervais in a rare moment of solemnity. 'I laugh about being fat but I should be ashamed.' Even the fully formed members of the fat club are in agreement with me on this one it would seem.
Of course, if I were obese, I must concede that I would not be penning this impassioned piece. No, I'd probably be going for my fourth plateful at Jimmy Chung's right now, just as if I were black I'd be liberally dropping the nigga word into every sentence. But I'm not – fat or black – and thus I find myself railing against rotundness whilst double-checking that there are no African-Americans in the room before singing along to 2Pac's 'Strictly 4 My N.I.G.G.A.Z' in an attempt at making me feel marginally less white.
I am currently a svelte 11½ stone, my girlfriend an even svelter 7½. Combined, we still weigh four stone less than my last cellmate. No prizes for guessing who slept on the top bunk. With the only fat component my girlfriend and I have between us consisting of my fat cock, weight isn't an issue that should be concerning us. And yet everywhere we've gone this week, Fat People have been following us. It's like we've been under surveillance by the Fat Police, although not very covert surveillance, admittedly. We walk into Starbucks and there is an enormous (and I mean enormous, not fat) bitch wedged into one of the armchairs next to us. Pizza Express? Some bingo-winged blubber-bum enveloping a chair at the adjacent table. The preponderance of lard has the effect of making me want to order a skinny latte or a healthy salad, but why? I'm not the one who needs to count my calories, and I'm certainly not gonna attempt to count theirs – not without an adding machine anyway.
The worst offender to insult my thin fascist ideals was encountered in the Job Centre. I might be unemployed, but we all have jobs to do in this world. She had a job getting into her chair while I had a job not collapsing on the floor in spasms of laughter. After spending eight months inside this year, I emerged into the free world to discover that not a whole lot had changed. The earth still orbited the sun, the Aberdeen team still couldn't score and Jordan was still regularly swallowing her bodyweight in sperm. The only thing that does seem to have changed during my hiatus is the fat quota – now there's more of it on everyone. Obesity is insidious. No one wakes up to discover that they've gained six stone in their sleep and their PJs now resemble cycling shorts. We were all thin once. A few of us still are. I might be at the wrong end of my twenties; I might even have a few grey hairs (but I wouldn't know as I shave my balls religiously to prevent the horror of ever having to find out), but at least I've still got my thinness. Mind you, if you'd spent the last eight months subsisting on Rice Crispies and whiling away your evenings doing sit-ups because there was nothing else to do, you probably wouldn't be looking so bad either.
Scientists have now pioneered a new type of surgery that takes all the excess fat from female hips and thighs and inserts it where it's needed most – the breasts. It sounds like a great idea in theory, but in practice if you tried that with some of the plus women I've seen lately, they'd end up with double Z-cups, tits that spanned time zones. There's stacked, and then there's top-heavy. All women would like to have bigger breasts, but not at the expense of having to wear a rucksack full of bricks to prevent themselves from toppling over.
You know, I could probably continue blogging in this vein for another 500 words, dropping in more fattist jokes about the fattest members of society, and yeah you might laugh as you read them, but what's the point? It's not you I'm addressing, it's you – yeah you, shovelling pizza into your fat face like an anaconda swallowing a stray African child. It's you I want to make laugh. I want to make you laugh so hard you puke; puke up all that calorific dough and cheese, laugh so hard you spew yourself bulimic. Perhaps then the next time I go for a Starbucks or Pizza Express, I'll be able to enjoy my victuals without having my view obscured or my conscience troubled by the thought that one day that might be me standing up to pay my bill and taking the chair with me.
Two minuses might make a plus, but two pluses certainly don't make a minus, no matter what TK Maxx might assert to the contrary. Or to put it in formulaic terms, plus woman plus plus woman = 2plus woman = too much woman by far.
2 comments:
You know, having met you for the first time on Friday, can I just say, that in my opinion you are skinny... offensively skinny.
Do you know what offends me most about your skinnyness....?
If we were the only two survivors of a plane crash in the Andes, only one of us would have something to eat, and it isn't me.... ;-)
;-)
Pick the bones out of that one
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