Category — Fucking Assholes

It’s true. There’s a rumor going around my office that I, Emaciated Lady, am pregnant. I went into hiding immediately after hearing this, but it’s time I confess. For a number of reasons, it’s been difficult for me to maintain my desired emaciated frame. I wish I could chalk it up to stress or age, but whatever the case, I know I’ve hit rock bottom when others are convinced I’m stashing a fetus in my womb. The obese idiot coworker who was dumb enough to tell me swears I haven’t gained that much weight, but apparently, it’s enough to make everyone believe I’m with child. In either case, I’ve decided to take extreme action. As soon as I get back from my mini Vegas vacation (where I plan on being nothing less than intoxicated 13 hours a day) I’m going on a cigarette/Bikram yoga diet. I need to prove these bitches wrong. Wish me luck.

I just got a call from a charity asking me to donate my clothes to the starving people throughout the world.
 
I told them to fuck off!!
 
Anybody who fits into my clothes isn’t starving…

One of the highlights of my life was the layover I had in Dallas last year. I text messaged nearly everyone I knew to describe the phenomenon I was witnessing — obesity at its finest. I’m from California so the sheer number of fat people really threw me for a loop. I experienced a truly happy moment in that airport. Probably because I get an endorphin rush whenever I feel skinny and superior. Unfortunately, a friend of mine who grew up in Fort Worth, recently went back to visit his parents and experienced the opposite reaction. Last week he Tweeted:

“Obese kids are fucking depressing. Yes, I’m in Texas.”

I don’t blame my friend for feeling sad over the fate of these kids. Fat children don’t make me happy. I only gloat over fat adults.

It’s official. My day job will kill me. Whether it’s from the exorbitant amount of pressure or from the calories, I will die shortly. After running around with my balls cut off the last few days, my boss offers me a reward — a mini chocolate brownie Cliff Bar that was included in his shipment of outdoor goods from REI. I’m eating it.

A likely obese radio host was talking about the fat bachelor show, essentially exonerating fat people of any responsibility for their condition, and in a complete non-sequitur she asserted, “Anorexia is obviously a psychological disorder.” Oh really? Really? Because I was thinking my thing for protruding bones and severe malnutrition was normal. Now I know better. Thank you, radio host lady, for your brilliant and insightful commentary.

I walked into work this morning fully prepared to ignore any notes or emails or phone calls about cookies, brownies or fresh baked lemon bars. I turned the corner and a homemade red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting (my absolute favorite) was sitting innocently on my desk. Whover put it there was sure to place it strategically next to my glass pig, a gift from Skinny Lady that serves as a daily reminder of the evils of food. I’ve been at work for almost five hours and the cupcake hasn’t stopped staring at me. I should just throw it away but I haven’t decided whether or not I want to take a nibble. Someone in this office is desperate to fatten me up.

UPDATE: I donated the cupcake to my hungry homeless friend. I currently feel like a skinny, kind spirited, strong willed individual. Yay me!

My friend is stuck in Dallas on a 3 hour layover, and I asked him whether all the people in the airport were fat. Here’s his response:

You should’ve seen the guy across the aisle on the first flight. Absolutely unethical of him to fly. He needed two seats easy. Poor guy next to him.

I post this because Emaciated Lady and I have discussed on several occasions the social depravity of fat people who fly. They should be persecuted prosecuted or, at the very least, they should be forced to buy the entire row of seats and a privacy curtain.

From the outside my neighborhood looks as swell as any other suburban paradise. We have palm trees, a community pool and even tennis courts. It seemed so blissful when Extra Large Man and I moved in three years ago. If only we knew what fuckers our neighbors are. All of them are pitted against each other in a dog poop war.

It started when we received our first notice from the HOA asking that we please refrain from allowing our dogs to eliminate on the grassy knolls within the complex. For the most part, everyone is pretty good about it. But over the last couple of years, I’ve come home to a pile of dog shit that could have only come from the giant Doberman that lives a few houses down or maybe from the golden retriever that lives across the street. My point is that EVERYONE’S dog poops on EVERYONE’s lawn and they only pick it up 76 percent of the time, which isn’t the biggest deal in the world. Unfortunately, we have some animal haters and I’ve been yelled at on occasion as my innocent little Lily squatted where she wasn’t supposed to.

Well, a couple of months ago I come home to four pieces of dung laid out horizontally in my front walkway. The pieces were strategically placed so there was little chance I wouldn’t step in it. I honestly refused to believe that a suburban neighbor would leave shit on my doorstep, so I figured someone’s idiot dog preferred my walkway to the grass. This happened two more times, but I still couldn’t fathom the reality of the situation. But last night, I exploded when I was once again greeted by a trail of dog poop leading up to my front door.

I suspect that our new next-door neighbors have stepped in dog shit on our shared lawn and just assumed it was our dogs. To teach us a lesson, they moved the shit to our doorstep. If I ever catch one of these fuckers in action, I will actually strangle them. In the meantime, I’m writing a letter to the Homeowner’s Association demanding that this dog poop war be brought up at the next community meeting. Does anyone want to draft the letter for me?