The Olympics follow me like a stalker poo that won’t flush, and now everyone’s trying to sell me a bum, even though I have one already.

First you starve your ass off, then have a surgeon add some fat to look less Manga cartoon and more Italian movie star on speed. The budget version is a blow-up bum from Chinatown and it sounds like a dying trumpet when you sit on it. Best not worn with the fake chest, as my model friend, crazy Keiko, discovered when she slithered off the Experimental Cocktail Club’s bar stool and her safer-than-Silicone plastic jugs jumped out.

It’s a shame big handbags aren’t in, or she could have discreetly stashed her chest until closing time. I could say she’s out of control after two martinis, but the truth is she’s mad as my mom’s wig even when she’s on the dandelion tea. Modeling is so brain-damagingly boring that it’s an asset to be shallow and stupid. Crazy Keiko doesn’t have to be the smartest banana in the bunch to figure out how to throw up her calories in a toilet—or not bother eating in the first place.

In some cultures thin still means sick and poor, and being a chunky Buddha is a sign of health and wealth. Like China, where the men are rich and the girls are thin. Their fat boyfriends get them the biggest melons in the catalog, and if they have no ass they can always buy one to simulate the hourglass figure that’s becoming popular in Asia. 

Skinny bitches are always getting a good kicking from the media, their mothers, and the fat burds who lack the commitment to starve. Fingers are being pointed at Kate Middleton and it’s only a matter of time before the Royal family ties her to the throne and force-feeds her a donut. She must be up to something—she’s closer to a U.S. size zero than a UK size ten. A woman with an eight-year-old’s waistline can’t be trusted, at least not in England, which is prolly why Victoria Beckham moved to L.A. 

I’d love to be a fly on the wall in their bedrooms to verify the rumor that Princess Catherine and Queen Victoria have insomnia. I don’t actually want to be a fly, obvsies, but I’d bet my mom’s Le Smoking that they are up all night worrying about looking fat in tomorrow’s photographs. The cultural Schadenfreude that criticizes them for being thin would gleefully crucify them for looking fat.

There are two slides to every story, the digitally retouched one and the cruel original. And eight-year-olds aren’t what they used to be, not with the fat guts they have from sitting around all day eating treats. They can’t be allowed to run around and play in case they take chocolate from a pedophile. But who needs the pedophile when you have your own supply from the in-house dealers, grandparents. 

Fat kids are bad enough, but big people who dress like babies are another story. Stella McCartney looked like a baba in a bad mood when she launched her Olympic designs in London. Is it those giant pajamas she wore or is she preggers again? But then, there’s no substitute for what you really want, and at the end of the day I’d rather eat and sleep than be the skinniest bitch around. I’m shallow not stupid. I understand that if I carry on chowing without chucking I can’t stay size two forever, though worrying I’ll be the fattest one in the room does help keep the door shut on size four. Anxiety is so suburban, but when it comes to dieting, sometimes stress beats laxatives and lettuce.

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