Category — WTF

After a miserable work function this afternoon, I thought I’d treat myself to food for lunch. I chose to go to an organic pizza place where I ordered a personal-size multigrain thin crust pizza with vegan rice cheese. The waitress told me I was a “champion” as she picked up my empty plate, but immediately realized how insensitive her comment was, so she followed it up with “you look great babe.” I can’t decide which is worse. Being called fat or babe.

My close proximity to Hollywood means I’m friends with people who regularly mingle with celebrities. A close friend of mine went to the Grammies on Sunday and told me something that made me more depressed than on the day I was compared to Kim Kardashian. She said that Beyonce Knowles is 5′1″ and skinny.

Does anybody understand why I’m so upset? Because Beyonce looks like a large-boned person with big thighs. I’ve always prided myself on being skinnier than her. If Beyonce actually is skinny, that makes me dangerously obese.

My coworker’s 3-year-old daughter accompanied her to work today, and everything was fine and good until this happened when I walked into her office:

Little girl: Is that Lizzie’s mom?

Coworker: That’s not Lizzie’s mom! That’s Skinny Lady. Remember you met her earlier?

Me: Do I look like Lizzie’s mom?

Coworker: No, Lizzie’s mom is about 400 lbs!

Since we all know kids don’t lie, I hope you all will understand if I go fling myself from a bridge. It’s been fun.

I absolutely had to borrow this image from People of Walmart to highlight the horrors of back fat, which are here compounded by an utterly misplaced and fucking ugly tattoo. I have to believe that she’s confused bat wings with buffalo wings, the latter of which would have been more appropriate, unless she’s got a sweaty scrotum and I’m not ruling that out. You just never know with Wal-Mart shoppers.

Emaciated Lady isn’t the only one battling pregnancy rumors at work. The other day I went in late because I had a doctor’s appointment. At a certain point in the afternoon, a coworker asked me if I had received “good news.” I was baffled. Did I get a secret promotion?

Since I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about, I said no and walked away. But then my curiosity got the best of me, so I turned around and asked what kind of good news I might be expecting. She smirked and whispered, “that you’re pregnant.” My instantaneous reaction was to look down and measure the protrusion of my belly. She must’ve noticed what I was doing because she then added, “you know, because you almost fainted a few weeks ago…”

Right. Because almost fainting + doctor’s appointment weeks later = must be knocked up. Completely logical conclusion. Now I have to worry about mother fuckers watching my stomach to see if I’m lying. I’m tempted to just put a sign there that says, “It’s a genetic flaw, not an incubator, now mind your own fucking business.”

Our manorexic friend, Crazy D, emailed the following self-portrait entitled “Me as I Really Am”:

I really have no room to criticize the artwork here, but Jesus, what the fuck is up with those hands? A more appropriate title would’ve been “Crustaceous Hermaphrodite” or “Mesopotamian Fertility Goddess.”

P.S. – If you’re wondering what Crazy D really looks like…

I thought nothing would horrify me more than watching the obese gorge themselves on fast food. Turns out, watching a movie about obese women being force-fed to death is worse. A friend of Random Anorexics was kind enough to tell us about the 2005 thriller Feed, which I plan to watch (for research sake) as soon as I find enough energy to login to my Netflix queue.

Even though I have yet to actually see the film, the trailer was enough to make me gag and giggle simultaneously as A. I’m unabashedly disgusted by really fat people and B. I’m a huge fan of horror films.

Apparently, the feeder sees himself as some sort of vigilante by forcing these women to reject society’s standards of thinness. I’ve got a brilliant idea. How about we stop worrying so much about the fucking standards of beauty imposed by society and start worrying about the health dangers of obesity like DEATH. Why doesn’t anyone give a shit about society’s standards of health?

As is our custom, my husband and I went to dinner on Friday night and indulged in a monstrous feast. Almost without fail, we end up with a server who has some kind of opinion about the amount we order and our ability to finish it. This Friday’s dinner out was no exception.

When I placed my order, the waitress inquired, incredulously and a little concerned, if this was a dish I had ever ordered before. The reason she asked, she explained, was because it’s quite a giant serving. “DUH, YOU STUPID BITCH. DON’T I FUCKING LOOK HUNGRY TO YOU?” was what I almost said, but I bit my tongue and told her that I knew it was a lot and my skinny ass husband was going to help me eat it, which he did.

Just as we finished everything up, she stopped by again, but this time she was applauding us, like actually clapping her hands applauding and congratulating us on our “nice work.” I almost kicked that whore in her fat kneecaps for drawing such unnecessary attention to my food consumption. I’ll bet fat fuckers don’t get applauded when they finish their meals.