Archive for the ‘Hungry Hungry Hippos’ Category

Occasionally, barely concealed incipient concern trolls will ask why CH gives so much shit to obstreperous fatties instead of just leaving them to their moribund misery.

The answer — besides a vigorous reminder that CH is not a camp of saints — is that loud and proud fatso promoters deliver a caustic, soul destroying message that will increase the total amount of ugliness and unhappiness in the world should women reading their lies start to believe them. Fat apologist feminists who insist on writing manifestos excusing or rationalizing or glorifying their fatness, or slandering anti-fat crusaders, will get, and do very much deserve, both barrels of the shivgun. Call it environmental activism. Call it the penile erection protection program.

Lies must be met with truth. Ideally, that truth comes packaged in stylistic ordnance that explodes in a shower of entertaining dazzle for fence-sitting gawkers and liquidates the central processing egos of the blubbery lie machines. Utterly annihilated, their demolecularized fatty essence scattered to the wind, the suffering fat chick (and it’s almost always a chick claiming fatness is fine, which should tell you something) howling in pain and impotent indignation serves as an example for the others: If you spread filthy lies that cause, intentionally or consequentially, women to be stripped of their beauty and thus men deprived of their happiness, CH will be here at the ready, the tip of its nimble hate spear plunging deep into your ululating hindbrain, probing, excavating, and finally stabbing with the force of a thousand unleashed hells the heart of your scarred, coal black id.

Fat shaming now, fat shaming tomorrow, fat shaming forever! MOOAH!

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Vox has a post about identifying future female fatties which references a study that found differences in MRI scans of the brains of women when viewing food or exercise. Women whose brains essentially bellyached at the sight of exercise were more likely to fatten up for the pig roast.

CH would like to e’er so ‘umbly suggest less invasive, and perhaps equally predictive, methods for determining which girl you date today has a good shot of becoming a gross fatty tomorrow.

There are four tests, listed in descending order of predictive power.

1. The Mom Test

If her mom is fat, she’ll be fat. If her mom was fat in old pictures of herself, she’ll be fat REAL SOON. The Mom Test is about as close to a guarantee of future daughter fatness as you can get. Prepare yourself for the inevitable by acquiring new numbers and warming up your texting-while-dumping thumbs.

2. The Wrist Test

She’s thin where it most counts but her wrists are old growth logs. Watch out! The wrist bones are a dead giveaway that she has the sturdy frame to support future poundage. She might not bloat to Jabba proportions, but she will “fill out”, to use a transparently softening euphemism.

3. The Diet History Test

Does she have a history of dieting? This may take some digging to uncover, but girls who have dieted in the past are prone to dieting in the present, and they will self-incriminate about previous attempts to lose weight, failed or successful. Naturally and durably slender women rarely, if ever, actively diet. “Actively” is the key word here, since it is possible to “diet” by simply choosing certain lifestyles without making a consciously pained effort to do so. A woman whose past is littered with the detritus of planned diets is one weak moment away from turning into a post-blueberry Violet Beauregarde.

4. The Unprompted Exercise Test

Does she jump into exercise without being prompted by external influences such as peers, scheduled class times on her phone calendar, or gym fads popularized on celebrity websites? Does she undertake exercise with a smile rather than a groan? Then she’s a thin-for-life keeper! But be careful about using total exercise hours spent as a measurement of a thin girl’s propensity to stay thin. If she has to be pushed into exercise, then she can just as easily be pushed out of it by eviler life influences. And many fat girls do log impressive amounts of time curling 1 lb pink dumbbells and strolling on treadmills at the lowest speed setting. The crucial variable, then, is a girl’s eagerness to exercise, and especially her eagerness to exercise alone. This is a girl who moves her body not to lose weight, but to stimulate a dopamine rush. Happily, a welcome side effect of that dopamine craving is a slenderness that just won’t quit.

So there you have it. Tally your girlfriend’s score.

Would you bang her sexy mom? Check.
Are her wrists like songbird legs? Check.
Is her idea of a diet not eating like a hog? Check.
Does she run five miles without advertising it to the whole world, or making a Hollywood production out of it? Check.

Congratulations! You have a girl whose tight hourglass bod will hold up for years, and even decades, to come. I’d say slap a ring on it, but that’s the one test that will reverse the positive result of passing all four of the above Future Fatty Tests.

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Things that I wish I deluded myself with earlier. Things that I’ve learned in online life, where babbling nonsense can never be fact-checked. Things people really need to talk about more, until they start to believe their own bullshit:

Everyone has rolls when they bend over. Everyone.

Yes, it’s true. When women hug their knees they show tummy rolls. ALL OF THEM HAVE TUMMY ROLLS. Of course, some rolls are tiny miniature baguettes that have to be coaxed out with extreme physical contortion and some are sun-bleached whale carcasses that protrude at the slightest exertion. And some rolls are so mighty they undulate even when the woman is standing straight. Not that any of this should make a difference, Judgy McJudgidouche. Everyone is equally sexy to the opposite sex. Except for creepers and nerds.

When people say “you’re gorgeous”, believe them.

Because if you start doubting the sincerity of random strangers who just want to make it through the day without starting fights with hair-trigger, insecure fatties, you’ll get depressed and think about killing yourself. (Protip: Don’t embarrass your family by having your dead body airlifted through a hole in the roof. Do the dirty deed in an empty field, preferably downwind of major population centers.) When well-meaning friends genuinely compliment your looks despite all evidence to the contrary, it’s because they see all of you. I mean, they see ALL of you with assistance from fish-eye lenses. So they know how to tailor their lies accordingly.

“Arm flab is embarrassing.”

No it’s not, go fuck yourself. Arm flab is romantic. Think about all the songs written about boys dying in your arms tonight… from asphyxiation.

You’re not stunning despite your body. You’re stunning because of your body.

That’s true. When a fat woman embraces you with all the inner beauty she can muster, you will be stunned and gasping for breath as your spine cracks. If you start to see a white light at the end of a tunnel, you’re not having a near-death experience; that’s just a flashlight she lost six months ago wedged in her cleavage. I am of the firm belief — much like the firmness with which creationists hold their beliefs — that every person is beautiful (except for the aforementioned creepers and nerds), and so this leaves the inside to be the part that is most telling when it comes to true “beauty”, which I have put in scare quotes because there’s no such thing as beauty, except for the even harder to discern stuff that exists on the inside. Presumably somewhere in the mitochondria?

A guy can pick you up off your feet, and it won’t break his back.

It won’t, I promise! Getting picked up by him won’t cripple anything but perhaps his ego as he struggles to deadlift a weight well above his one rep max.

True story. This just happened to me for the first time in… six years? I’m considerably heavier than I was 6 years ago (like… 70 pounds heavier) and so when I ran up to my friend Eric for a hug and he picked me up with my heels in the air… it left me breathless. I had forgotten that it was possible; I had accepted a life void of being lifted. So exhilarating. Eric didn’t suffer any lasting injuries that I could tell and he walked away pretending to be Ok, before spending the evening alone icing every joint in his body.

You don’t need to exercise every day in order to feel better about yourself.

You could get your dopamine fix with a tub of butterfat, for instance. You don’t owe it to anyone to look good for them, unless you want to be noticed by normal men with functioning libidos.

You’re allowed to fall in love with yourself. I promise.

This will be the scariest thing you will ever do, because there will be some moldy fungus colonies in your belly folds that will be very hard to love. It will also be the most amazing (albeit super delusional) experience you will ever have. It doesn’t make you narcissistic. It doesn’t make you vain. It makes you blind to reality, and that’s liberating in every nuance of the term.

It’s also okay to have days were you don’t love yourself.

It’ll take a long time to reverse the effects of self-hate indoctrination and brainwashing by hanging out on feminist fat-acceptance websites where you can indulge self-love indoctrination and brainwashing.  It’s going to take a lot longer than you think to reverse this thinking, because the non-rationalizing part of your brain knows that fatness kills romance dead. So give the media the finger, and move forward into a different media that tells you what you want to hear.

Everyone’s boobs are uneven. If you have a lot of boobs, they might be way uneven.

If you have a lot of boobs. you may want to see a doctor. Superfluous boobs are weird. But if you have just two boobs, and they’re uneven, worry about other things. Unevenness is not as much of a turn-off to men as are hanging sacks of seal blubber pendulously slapping the top of a fupa.

There are people who prefer large ladies. And I mean all sizes of large.

I thought that my best bet in life was to find a partner who accepted my fat. Pause. Give me a minute to hang my melonhead and shake it at myself. Not only are there people who adore “thick” women, but a LOT of them who prefer it. By “people”, I mean loser men with no options. By “LOT”, I mean one or two weirdo fatty fuckers.

Here is what you need to know: you do NOT need to settle for a lover who is “okay” with your body. You have the right (and millions of imaginary opportunities) to find someone who is infatuated with your body. You deserve to be worshiped by a freak fat fetishist who wants to masturbate into your chins, woman!

Fat chicks bang hot guys… ALL. THE. TIME.

If my proof by assertion doesn’t convince you, there’s always Hugh Jackman. And a million indiscriminately horny black men who would bang your back tits in a drunken haze.

“Girls” showed what society thinks about that when Hannah’s character has a weekend romance with an attractive and wealthy doctor. People flipped their shit. It was like seeing a beautiful woman in the arms of a pimply brony with a stutter. It violated too many rules about how the world really works. Never mind that the show is a vehicle for Lena Dunham’s wish fulfillment feminist fantasies, the message to us fatty fats is a positive one, and should remind us that hot guys aka socially awkward rejects will settle for dumping their tepid crippled seed in our distended porcine holes when the couch crease stops looking attractive.

Exceptions prove that the rules don’t apply to US, ladies. Now let’s group hug with our T-rex arms.

Riding during sex will NOT collapse his insides.

But it may kill him just the same.

Wearing whatever you want is a political statement.

Join the revolution. Throw style rules out the window. Wear the tutu. Wear the horizontal stripes. Wear the turquoise skinny jeans (shoe horn included). Wear the see-through blouse. Wear the bikini (sans bridge). Wear the sweat pants. Wear the shirt that says “Does this shirt make me look fat?”. Wear whatever it is that makes you happy, even if that’s the four-person tent tarp. This is your life. And it’s the life of everyone else who will mock the Mariana Trench plumber’s crack of your revolutionary posturing.

You are fucking beautiful.

I’m saying this with a straight face and seriously meaningful look where I maintain eye contact for an uncomfortable amount of time, because these are the immense efforts I need to make to convince myself as well as you of an absurdity that is so transparently false to anyone with the eyes to see. I know you don’t feel like you fit into the category of gorgeous that our world aka immutable biological reality creates. I know that its hard. I know that its a daily battle to adhere to proper grammar. But fuck their fascist beauty standards, replace them with your own fascist beauty standards. The second you stop looking for a skinny model in your funhouse mirror and start looking at YOU… is the second you will start to appreciate the solitary life of the manatee. Stop looking for folds. Stop looking for canyon-sized dimples. You are perfect in the middle of a polar vortex where your layer of insulating fat gives you a survival advantage. You are more than enough for that all-you-can eat brunch buffet. You are the best thing that has ever happened to discarded piano cases doubling as coffins. And you are fucking beautiful to hungry predators looking for immobile prey and an easy week-long meal.

Say it with me, because no one of sound mind will say it with us.

“Thing #1: You’re fucking repulsive to the human eye. Oh shit! How did that get past the hamster editor?”

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Beta George Zimmerman’s wife when he was a nobody neighborhood watchman trying to do some good for his community:

Alpha George Zimmerman’s girlfriend after he killed a thuglet, endured a mass media circus, became infamous, earned an army of wannabe vigilantes, got that cold thousand yard stare from his ordeal, armed himself to the teeth, and took off on a cross-country journey while picking up a couple of speeding violations and domestic abuse charges:

Lesson #1: A significant rise in male social status and perception of badness will allow a man to trade up a full 4 to 5 SMV (sexual market value) points in girlfriend quality. Zimmerman took advantage of his increased mate market options and dumped his UG2 fat wife for a 6.5 girlfriend with admirable titties.

Lesson #2: Women with higher SMV want infamous badboys. Women with lower SMV must settle for invisible neighborhood rent-a-cops.

Lesson #3: Fat chicks who claim that their beta schlub boyfriends are proof that there are plenty of men who love fat women don’t comprehend the nature of the sexual market. Options = instability. When tragically sad beta or omega males experience a sudden rise in status or desirability, it’s Bye Bye Fatty! The very few exceptions to this rule (Hugh Jackman, possibly gay) are cleaved to fat women’s pendulous breasts like cherished infants, swaddled talismans against the suffocating encroachment of ugly, hopeless, relentless reality.

Lesson #4:

George Zimmerman’s girlfriend — who authorities said accused him of pointing a shotgun at her — no longer wants him to be prosecuted, and wants to resume their relationship, according a new motion.

A sworn statement made by the girlfriend, Samantha Scheibe, was attached to a motion by Zimmerman’s lawyer seeking to modify the conditions of Zimmerman’s bond in his domestic violence case.

In the statement, Scheibe says she felt “intimidated” when police questioned her about the Nov. 18 incident that led to Zimmerman’s arrest. She adds that she “may have misspoken.”

“I want to be with George,” Scheibe says in the statement, adding later: “I do not want George Zimmerman charged. I make this decision freely, knowingly and voluntarily,” and without coercion, she says.

If a woman thinks you’re an alpha male, however flawed, she will move heaven and earth — and even deny her own words — to be with you. What’s a little shotgun-waving tiff between two lovers?

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A shambling cloverfield has drawn up a list of pretty lies she wishes people would stop saying to her. As a big beautiful person of convexity, she has accepted her fatness, and she wants you to accept it as well. I agree. We should all accept that fat people are fat, and not mince around it. (Which would take years and grappling hooks, anyhow.) So in the spirit of her post, here are the 11 things you should always say to a fat girl to let her know you accept that she’s fat and you won’t patronize her by acting like you don’t notice her fatness.

1. You’re fat!

You are fat. It’s just a descriptor. If you’re calling yourself fat, I will gladly agree, because lying with a straight face takes energy. Hopefully my refreshing honesty will feel as good to you as it does to me.

2. You have such a fat face.

There’s a chance you have a pretty face, but I can’t tell under all that blubber. You also have a banging body hiding somewhere in there, like a tiny nested doll—it just happens that your outer body is bigger than what any normal man finds attractive on a primal, biological level. Now, do a shimmy for me so I can record it and make a funny gif called ‘Twerking Walrus’.

3. Oooh, let’s go to Lane Bryant!!!

You cannot fit into anything at Bebe. You probably can’t fit into anything at Lane Bryant either, but the only other choice is the REI camping department.

4. You need that candy bar.

It’s delicious, and how else will you sustain your massive corpulence that is the envy of no one anywhere? Open your piehole and accept the candy bar, the same way you accept your hideous visage.

5. You’d look better if you were thinner.

Why beat around the fupa? Yeah, your fat makes you unhealthy, but no one really gives a shit about your blood work or what some fat female doctor reassuringly told you to keep you coming back for more high-priced office visits. Aesthetically, you’re a mess (trust), and the only thing that will change that is losing weight. It doesn’t take a medical degree to know what vomit tastes like at the sight of you.

6. Phew, I’m so thin.

I won’t talk about being fat around a fat person when it’s obvious I’m not fat. Instead, I’ll tell it like it is (the way you like it), and express my utter relief that I don’t look anything like you. So I will talk about how great it is to be thin in your company and the implications should work themselves out.

7. That half mile of slow jogging you do isn’t going to make up for the calorie surplus you regularly run.

Yes, I know you do yoga and swim—that’s where you sit on your ass on a mat and break one bead of sweat and float in a pool like an otter that swallowed a beach ball. Yes, you have a gym membership. Very good, now you’ve found a venue to pound energy drinks and baby walk the treadmill while totally ignoring the weight room. Reward yourself later with a tub of ice cream for your hard work.

8. Nah, I don’t want to borrow your clothes.

You don’t wear clothes, you wear fabric bundles. I suppose if I want to borrow a car cover, I’ll give you a call.

9. Have you gained weight??

I mean, honestly, at your size it’s kinda hard to tell either way.

10. Dieting is for unhappy women who worry about their looks. That’s not you.

Dieting sucks and it doesn’t work the way you do it, before any hunger pangs are actually felt. It’s obvious you’ve stopped that dieting b.s. You just want to be happy and unhealthy, and one of the best ways for you to do that is to not stress so damn much about your repulsive fat folds. Is that a cheeto under your third chin? Embrace it! It’s a victory over dieting and anorexia, a small token that reminds the world what a confident, accepting fat woman looks like. Thar she crows!

11. I’m not trying to help.

When I start offering good advice you didn’t ask for, you don’t feel cared for. You feel humiliated. I don’t want to shame you, so instead I will love you as much as you claim to love yourself. I will shout to the world how gloriously fat you are, and how it doesn’t matter at all because you’re at peace with the rearview mirror you must use every time you have to wipe. I will shake your round belly and say “This belly is accepted by its owner. This belly is loved so much it gets more food than it can handle.” That’s all that matters, right? Your acceptance, my acceptance. Our acceptance. And what’s more accepting than dropping reality on your bowling ball head and not worrying if it will crush your soul?


12. You should be an orbiting space station model.

Acceptance level 99 achieved.

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It’s the great pumpkinhead, Charlie Brown!

As hideous on the inside as she is on the outside. A monster in our midst.

There’s a reason the ancients equated truth and goodness with beauty. They knew a solid correlation when they saw one.

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Sometimes you just want to go home, but you’re stuck being a man in public.

You get on the train after a long day. The doors are trying to close and a big fat woman jams them open with her bulk, unintentionally letting on another guy. A man in a military uniform takes his earbuds out and says to the obese door-blocker, “Don’t hold the door open.”

“What did you say?”

“Don’t hold the door open.”

“Did you just touch me? That’s sexual harassment!”

You can’t help staring at the scene, like a rubbernecker slowing down to check out the carnage surrounding a car accident, and unfortunately the nasty fat woman catches you gawking at her. You take a seat as far away from her monstrous apparition as possible and try to disappear into your Kindle, averting your eyes. Everything finally calms down.

The door-blocker, who’s already proven herself to have zero qualms about confronting normal-sized people, is looking at you. You can see her in your peripheral vision — she’s hard to miss — and you can feel her looking hungrily at you.

You’re at a distance, but your suit is faddishly undersized and you’re wearing Sex Walrus cologne so you know she noticed you. Keep reading, keep looking down. You briefly wish you were less attractive or a woman or that you were wearing a rainbow flag t-shirt so she would stop thinking you were interested in her. She keeps looking at you. There is nothing worse than an ugly fat woman with delusions of attractiveness and a penchant for false eye rape accusations making life uncomfortable for you, the average man in public.

The person on the inside of your seat needs to get off. You hold your breath as you let them out and you move in, thinking of all the things you’ll say and do when she tries to plop down next to you like a tranquilized elephant and talk to you when you just want to avoid that gross feeling of a ham-shaped arm pressing into your side.

You exhale when an older woman rushes to take the seat you’ve vacated. You’re safe and insulated by the window now.

Door-blocker exits at the next stop and the imaginary sexual tension leaves with her.

It’s only been a few minutes, but this is what goes through your head when you’re existing as a man in public and ugly fat women assume you want them, when all you were really thinking was “why is this fat bitch hyperventilating?”.

Originally published at the fittingly named Jezebel Groupthink blog.

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Her arms, those perfectly rounded seat belts
which safely hold you on a ride in her plus-mobile
are oh so beautiful
And once they are back in resting position
hanging beside her body
then forming a sort of secondary cleavages
as if you did not already have enough of
her naturally large cleavage.

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HerewardMW proposes a sterling idea,

Lets actually have a prison for fat people. The perimeter wall will be five feet high and the bars three feet apart. The prison will have a gym. If you can escape you’re free to go.

What percentage of fat feminists do you think would stay locked up for life, bitching and moaning the whole time about thin privilege and the unfairness of denying them prison bars five feet apart? 99%?

Runner-up comment winner is Dirk Johanson,

I once read a novel where there was a scene where a circus fat lady on the verge of death got fucked to death in a gang-bang – she enjoyed it so much, eventually her heart gave way. Its a pretty disgusting thought to me – especially the part where the guy was describing that her shit-smell was permeating the circus tent- but for guys that are really undersexed and can’t afford a good-looking hooker, that type of thing could be a revenue-generator for the concentration camps.  After all, all that food won’t be cheap.

It’s this kind of creative free association that makes the Chateau so respectable among mainstream media outlets.

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In my travels far and WIDE, I have seen fat people do some really funny shit, usually unintentionally, or have funny shit happen to them on account of their abnormal size, weight, girth and texture. Can’t forget texture.

- Unknowingly dribble food bits and drink down their chins. A fatty completely oblivious to the organic particulates accumulating outside his mouth is a comedic sight to behold.

- Knock over chairs and rattle tables as they were shimmying into seats at restaurants. I once witnessed a fatty so humongous and ill-equipped to navigate her own circumference turn over an entire four-seater table in slo-mo, as her massiveness rounded the bend and she settled her planetary obstruction into her pitiably undersized chair. The table came crashing to the ground, spilling dinnerware and a sad candle onto the floor with a loud clatter.

- Fart with the slightest exertion at the waist. No matter how uptight you are, you won’t be able to restrain a chortle when you hear a fatty rip a sonorous cheek-flapper as she’s bending over a mere inch to straighten a wrinkle on her tent pants. And lest you think you can politely hide your amusement, remember that a fatty’s fart is ten times as loud as a normal weight person’s fart, given that the fatty’s back draft has multiple zones of blubber to travel before final release. You’d think this would act to muffle the offending blast, but instead, like a geothermal well, pressure builds until the equivalent of a refinery’s worth of gas has parted the outer ass layer, and the slapping of cheese-cleaved butt roasts produces a ten-piece trumpet tremolo worthy of the Philharmonic.

- Break a chair. Yes, despite its clichéd nature, I remember clear as the day the time a fatty sat her bulk on a chair and one of the back legs gave out, flinging her backwards like a post-breach whale. She landed with such adiposity that… and I swear this as Lucifer is my unholy mentor… she bounced a little upon impact.

- Take a direct hit from an out-of control bicyclist and barely nudge as the guy on the bike goes flying in the opposite direction. A particularly overgrown specimen of fatty — a man weighing in the arena of 400 pounds, mostly confined to the belly and, steatopygially, to the buttocks — was winged by a bicyclist who, inexplicably, didn’t see the fatty before it was too late to avoid collision. The fatty took the brunt of the front wheel’s tangential blow to the bull’s-eye on his hanging midsection and fell back two steps, still miraculously on his feet, while the bicycler, and his bike, ricocheted like a bank shot pool ball at a tidy 45 degree angle from point of contact, finishing their macabre pirouette in a heap on the ground, front wheel futilely spinning in the air, grasping for asphalt that wasn’t there. The fatty did eventually fall to his feet, but only well after the dust had cleared, ostensibly to catch his breath from the blow’s radiating shock waves of pain, thirty seconds post-crash, that were just reaching his delicate innards. Bystanders rushed to help the bicyclist but assistance for the fatty was, of course, beyond anyone’s ability, given that no witness appeared able to deadlift 400 pounds of dangerously shifting weight.

- Absorb a sunburn in a perfect circle on the abdomen. A fatty female who, incomprehensibly to those with sense, was wearing a bikini and sunbathing on her back, stood up to reveal a bright red spot that circumnavigated the entirety of her yeast-risen belly. The perfect geometry and smoothness of edge was astounding, and gave her front the look of a red-rumped baboon in heat.

- Smoosh flip-flops into micron-thin atomic layers. Take a look at a fatty’s flip-flops sometime. Notice how wafer-thin the soles are. Then laugh as you wonder if the flip-flop’s atomic lattice was pressurized into a new periodic table element.

- Push seven large, sweating and grunting, adult men to the breaking point during the Horah. No further elucidation needed.

- Since this is a non-denominational shaming session, I once saw a fatty with tits so grossly inflated completely bury her Madonna-esque crucifix in folds of breast blubber. Jesus wheezed.

And my favorite fatty funny….

- Listen to a fat chick expound at length about her “great catch” boyfriend, only to watch her unscripted surprise when he showed up, apparently uninvited, at the social gathering we were attending, and thereby proved without a doubt, by evidence of both his notable lack of swagger and blank personality, just how far he actually was from being a “great catch”. But the best part was when, later, she asked for a sip of his beer and then proceeded to chug nearly half the bottle, leaving him with a sorry puddle of dregs at the bottom, which he stared at forlornly for an uncomfortably long spell.

Some people, probably fat asses themselves, with a constitutional aversion to the idea of mocking fat fucks for fun and aesthetic profit, have forwarded CH a study* which claims to show that fat shaming doesn’t work as a method to persuade fatties to slim down. To that, I say, that’s not shaming! You want shaming, I’ll give you shaming. Real shaming, not this pussyfoot crap based on an amorphous concept like “discrimination” favorable to Narrative guidelines.

*There is a major flaw with the “fat shaming” study. Specifically, the researchers relied on self-reporting questionnaires that asked whether participants had experienced discrimination. Anyone who is familiar with the hamster rationalizing of assorted losers in life, such as fat grotesqueries and chisel-chinned feminists, will tell you how adept those people are at blaming anyone but themselves for their wretched wretchedness. So it should be no surprise that a bunch of fat shits waddled into a quiet study to fill out a form with cheetos-stained fingers blaming the equivalent of THE MAN for their love of wolfing down greasy fried food and pints of ice cream.

Now, if you want real shaming that actually BITES, try shaming fat shits with methods proven to work. Charge them more to use public transit. Laugh openly at them. Make a spectacle of them. Flay their souls for the mirth of the cheering, howling mob, a la Chateau Heartiste. Sneer at, belittle, and viciously mock them. Or, if you prefer the crueler, subtler art of soul shivving, converse with them in innuendo and sly entendre that lets them know, forever and ever, how repulsive they are to normal people.

If, after years of this psychological torture, most fatties don’t find the fortitude to push away from the table, then you may say that shaming doesn’t work. But I suspect, rather strongly based on real world observation, that many fatties would discover in themselves a hidden untapped well of willpower, and lose the weight. For those fatties who prefer to abandon all hope under the social shaming onslaught and retreat to a dank bedroom to eat until they explode, well, consider it culling the herd. Evolution in action. The untimely dispatch of a species’ deformed members gets a bad rap, but it’s a good thing for the species’ survival as a whole. And the slim phoenix that rises from the rendered ashes will be a good thing for lovers, such as CH, of truth and beauty and sexy babes who can inspire authentic boners.

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