Skinny Parents Are Going To Hell, Too: A Rant

by Mel Dyer

Time-travel! Of all the great super-powers I can dream of waking up with, THAT is the one that I would find most useful, ..for awhile. If only I could turn back time...

If I could turn back time, every time I was about to eat something sweet, buttery, fried or fatty, ..I would just pop myself back there and knock it out of my pudgy, little hands! If only I could go back in time ..and avert the cosmic disaster of my ever becoming fat.

Seriously, ..no slice of cheesecake (my favorite), pile of Doritos, cup of coffee (my second religion), steak, ribs, Mama's spaghetti, Daddy's Dungeness crabs, a pizza, an enchilada, soul food (ALL of it) - none of it is worth the crapload of misery that comes from touching these things. I would send every morsel back to the kitchens. If you're feeding your kids this stuff, before they even know what a good life, in a fit, attractive body, has to offer them, may God have mercy on your souls...

Especially, if you're fat!

Yes, your evil, inhuman, skinny-parent asses are going straight to Hell, for making fat children feel bad, with your skinny kids!

Fat parents are going to Hell, ..because you know how you got that way. Yes, you do, ..and shame on you, all. Skinny, show-offy, sumbich parents are going to Hell, too, but, you fatasses are going to get there, first, ..because you're heavier, and you'll probably drop faster.

Like the doomed, thoughtless, deluded HELL-BISCUITS, you are!

What does all of this mean?

Food is FUEL. That's all it is. Eat enough to keep from passing out or getting a goddam headache - that's it, if you want to spare your offspring all of the immitigable torment, ..waiting for obese people in the Western World. Pinch your kids' noses closed, when they eat, or drown everything on their plates in VINEGAR (like folks, who don't know how to cook), so it all tastes the same - nasty...

If you love them.

For what, you ask? A happy life, in tiny, box cut swim trunks (like Daniel Craig's in CASINO ROYALE), which I cannot presently wear, with any dignity. That's what! If that sounds shallow to you, you haven't turned fifty, with UNCLE FESTER staring at you, from the mirror, every day!

Oprah, ..Dr. Phil, ..skinny, Indian doctor-guy (Something Gupta) on CNN ..and the other younger, really skinny, Indian doctor-guy on MSNBC - I don't want to hear it. I'm in a dark, bitter place, and you're about forty-eight years, too late, ..to make anything better.

I don't want to HEAR it. Uncle Fester's is looking at me, right now. You're too late!

Trust me, ..selfish, deluded, evil fat parents, who are reading this: Box cut trunks are worth the sacrifices you have to make, like hurling up everything (water, celery and cupcakes), you ever barbecued and force-fed me, in my sleep, ..to never not fit in them, you psychotic, over-buttered sumbiches! I hate you. You ruined my life. I don't care, if this bitter, self-pitying, stream-of-consciousness $#*+ doesn't have anything to do with the rest of this paragraph! I'm putting it in the sodding paragraph, anyway - I don't give a $#*+, anymore. Box cut trunks are for time-travelling superheroes and ANGELS, you evil fatasses.

Box cut trunks are worth it! Keep your food down (please), ..but, trust me - they're worth it.

What does this have to do, with living between the Hill and Anacostia? Not a gadblamed thing.