More people commit suicide on weekends and holidays, or at 3 am, when everyone else is trying to sleep. It’s only $50 an hour to have a moan-on-the-phone at rentafriend.com.
But Crazy Keiko calls me every night with an update on her lack of a date for Valentine’s Day. She can’t get a man and she’s not even fat. What hope is there for chubsters who use any excuse, including St. Valentine, to chow into chocolate? Despite taking Mr. Lash’s advice not to wear her blow-up ass with her plastic jugs, Crazy Keiko has stalked men who have either died, left town, or threatened her with prison. She’s even considering Sneaky Pete from work, who robbed her last time they had sex. Or her creepy neighbor Cheesy Walter, whose socks I can smell from here. He’s a hard man to avoid but it’s well worth the effort.
Her best bet is to fake a date. Have a hot bikini wax on the big day, whisper into the phone to someone who isn’t there, and send herself more flowers than usual. Chocolate hearts are out of the question because she hasn’t eaten since 2003. “It’s not fair,” she wails. “Bad Viv married Mr. Lash and I’m still flying solo.” She’s not flying at all. She’s on her back in a vodka coma. But nobody said it was fair, as Joan Crawford told her kids before locking them in the cellar.
The Western world has a number of weird rituals, increasingly adopted by other cultures, designed to cause calorie addiction. There’s creepy Claus who sneaks into children’s bedrooms leaving behind chocolate images of himself. Then Easter, when a hairy dude’s crucifixion is celebrated by the mass consumption of chocolate eggs. And Thanksgiving, when the President gets to talk to a turkey slathered in sweet stuff.
But Valentine’s Day takes the prize when creepy couples allegedly in love exchange chocolate hearts. It’s like a cheerleading session for love handles. If you really love someone, would you really want to give them a box of chocolates?
A shot of heroin would be more helpful than chocolate to anyone on a diet — as most sane people are. But that’s illegal and not socially acceptable, like the insipidly dangerous chocolate bunny. The sad truth is that more people are addicted to sugar than love. You’re not even safe at fashion shows from this growing army of chubsters assaulting the eye in the front row. What next, the fat chicken from Girls on the catwalk?
But fat people everywhere have the excuse that it’s legal. There’s even a chubster conspiracy to pretend that Marilyn Monroe was a size twelve. Maybe when pregnant but, for most of her career, Marilyn was a size six with a size zero waist. I will admit her thighs wouldn’t be allowed in film now; but she did live in the era before lipo.
The debate about gay marriage cracks me up. Does anybody really want a miserable marriage? A cool couple like Elton and David totally tops unhappy heteros who stay together for the children who can’t stand them. (Yes, mum and dad, I mean you.) Instead of “Until death do us part,” the marriage vows should be “Until one of us gets fat.”
No one wants to see a creepy couple kissing in public, whether they are gay, straight, married or single and kissing her own reflection in a shop window. But you do have the option of closing your eyes. That’s freedom of choice, poppet. Chubsters like to impose their choice on everyone with a big lie that swallowing sugar is better than starving.
It’s always been my fantasy to go to the Mayr Clinic and live on bread and water until I’m size two without needing a coat hanger to get my zip up. Maybe Mr. Lash — or one of my secret admirers — will take the hint and buy me a fasting voucher for V Day.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: there is no substitute for what you really want.