It turns out, and I’ll give you a moment to recover, I am fat. Certainly this was news to me. Now, those of you who have so little to live for that you actually recall a post I wrote nearly a year ago will remember that in April of last year, I was dumbfounded by the fact that my body had, without my knowledge or permission, grown by ten pounds. If you happen to be the one dedicated reader we have with half a brain, you’ll further recall I wasn’t too worried, because I had a full nine days to right this obvious mistake. An eternity.

So I did what any red-blooded American guy would do: I added another twenty-one. I’ll confess, it wasn’t easy, but through a disciplined regiment of strict eating habits I did it. The most effective method, I found, was the willingness, even when I didn’t want it, to have ice cream every night, often right before bed. Your personal results may vary, and it’s important that you find a diet that fits your lifestyle. I’m only telling you what worked for me.

Back then I blamed my wife*, and her pathetic inability to find a bathroom scale that worked. But now I see clearly that nothing has changed: my wife is wholly responsible for my weight gain. This, as you veteran guys already know, is just another facet of her complex scheme to make me unattractive to the population at large, thereby greatly reducing the odds that a twenty-six-year-old Swiss woman will become smitten with me, to the point she has no choice but to hold me against my will and force me to spend time with her reviewing numbered account balances while feeding me chocolates and insisting I accept an engraved Blancpain Fifty Fathoms watch. My wife is so selfish.

Which leaves me ample time to think. Since I have gained approximately thirty-one pounds in a year’s time, and that is … hold on … calculating … Christ, I can’t do it. Well, it means there is more of me than there was a year ago. This begs the following obvious questions:

  • Am I more of a man than I was last year?
  • Does that mean I carry more responsibility?
  • Responsibility for what?
  • Do I feel more than I used to?
  • Am I responsible for Global Warming?
  • How about Russian Collusion?

Because, as near as I can tell, those thirty-one pounds on me are part of me. They are as much me as any other particular pounds. So, when you hear the phrase, “he has really grown as a person”, you can see what someone might mean. And in a world where more is better, doesn’t that mean I am, by societal standards, better than I was last year? Is that why supermodels are so ditzy?

But now I’ve become concerned, because I didn’t, per se, want to add thirty-one pounds to myself. I’m almost sure the world isn’t ready for me to be any “greater” than I am. So, now I have to “lose” thirty-one pounds. And you want to talk about questions begging to be asked, boy do I have a few.

  • Will it be the same thirty-one pounds?
  • Will I be some percentage that I couldn’t figure out how to calculate less intelligent?
  • Will my penis get smaller?
  • Where do those thirty-one pounds go?
  • Will they have a penis of their own?

What I really want to know is, since we have agreed these new thirty-one pounds are part of me, if I lose them, will I effectively be killing part of myself? Misplacing? Or, will part of me simply exist elsewhere, like a thirty-one pound Mini-Me? If so, will he be a tripod? Which one of us gets to choose which pounds go with which one of us? I’m so confused.

I suppose I’ll find out, because if you have seen any advertisement for anything ever, you are well aware that these pounds must go. Society says they’re unacceptable. Even Democrats don’t like them. So, for the last week, I have been “eating” a diet that consists of fruit, vegetables and meat. That’s it. That’s the entire diet. There is no bread. There is no dessert. There is, in fact, nothing enjoyable at all. Turns out, I am not even supposed to eat the Publix brand Fruit on the Bottom low-fat yogurt, which I actually like. Even a granola bar is off-limits.

Don’t even ask. Of course this menu is devised by my wife.

But, just for fun, can you imagine the benefits to the world if everyone was pleasantly plump? First of all, I bet people would be a lot nicer in general. I’m certain there would be fewer fights in the Walmart parking lot. You could, thank god, say goodbye to MMA, or Ultimate Fighting Whatever. You wouldn’t have to go in stores and see clothes on a mannequin that will not, under any circumstances ever, look like that on you. Vladimir Putin would be comical, instead of scary.

For my money, though, just putting out of business the jackass who came up with the idea of “skinny jeans”, which has evolved into an entire industry of “slim fit” clothing for “men” is worth it alone. Come to think of it, that was probably my wife’s idea too.

* Astoundingly, she is still married to me, or at least she was prior to reading this post. (Babe, remember the FAQ’s – it’s all made up. Well, except for the thirty-one pounds. DON’T LEAVE ME! WE LOVE YOU!!!)