Written by joeybabe25
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Wednesday, 12 December 2007

I am the fattest man in the world. The last time I was taken down to the post office by my brother's wife for a weighing, I came in a just a pinch over 2000 pounds. I don't feel that fat. Like old people who say that they eternally feel 35, I have had the idea that my weight is about 1500 or perhaps 1600 pounds. Not the 2000 that the scale says. I live naked all the time, except when I must go out, and then I wear my nice sheet and neckerchief. Actually, when I'm out on the town, at a doctor's appointment or shopping, my sheet makes me look like a comfortable 1200 or 1300 pounds. It's always good to go with fashions that slim you.

As well, you might think I'm uncomfortable with my fat. I'm not, rather. I've incorporated my folds of flesh into my being much as a prostitute would be proud of her trick vagina. It's all the same anyhow. Trick vaginas' come and go, but really fat men are a specialty that need to be studied, loved, hankered after, buffered from the maddening crowd, held in high esteem and respected for his ability for carrying all that weight around. As the bible says; where goethe the fat man goes the weight of the world.

I don't know how to do anything. Not anything at all. I don't work. I don't socialize. I have no friends and I have no redeeming social qualities. I do have a small income from a trust my great grandfather set up many years ago from his pay toilet company. The company, long out of business, provides me with about twenty five hundred dollars a month. Out of that I pay for all my stuff and living expenses, always making sure to spend it all, because as a condition of the trust, what I don't spend goes back to the estate, and is forever lost to me.

It's not that I do nothing. I do wake up in the morning. But that is more because I have slept the previous fifteen hours and my eyes won't stay shut any longer. I get up, eat my breakfast of six eggs scrambled, a pound of bacon, a loaf of toast, a box of cereal, a cookie, two muffins, a piece of fried chicken, orange juice, a popsicle, a diet coke, and a selection from my house buffet of ham, turkey, meat loaf, cheese dumplings, cakes, pies, and coffee. This works for me, and sets me up with enough energy to seize the day and make it a worthwhile one.

After breakfast I take a short nap, until lunchtime. The lifting, pushing, pulling, tasting, spitting out nasty foods and all the other activities one must participate in eating a fine breakfast are quite tiring, and with my weight problem, I have to be careful not to get overly fatigued. I sleep on my back, usually, since I do nap right after breakfast, and if there is still any food in still in my mouth, I want it to go down, rather than trickle out down my cheek and not mess the sheets. When I eat something I want it to be eaten and not wasted by spilling it on my bed, or engaging in projectile vomiting, which fortunately I do very infrequently.

Joe Postove

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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