Those Dove ads– with the fat chicks standing around in their panties… the one all the way on the right, with the chin-length brown hair, kind of tan. She’s got this cute round face that makes her look about fourteen years old, this cute little nubbin nose… oh god, do Iwant to fuck that pig… that sloppy fat whore… her fat looks all smooth and soft, not all cellulitey and grainy like real fat chicks. Like there’s muscle underneath it. Man, I just want to cum in that hot little underage sow and make her have my baby…
The rest of them are disgusting.
My posts about fatties are getting torn apart in Jezebel comments, in a thread about a Hugo “let me take a break from preaching sanctimonious feminist boilerplate to try to kill my girlfriend and fuck a couple of my nineteen year old students” Schwyzer article no less. Sadly the discussion is now in their “groupthink” area which is un-trafficked, but the ladies do not disappoint:
And you know, they are not wrong. I am an asshole. I am a “Piece. Of. Shit.” with three periods. I am a “sad little loser.” I deserve to have my “balls shrivel up and fall off.” I am “wrapped in a muscle suit of hate.” A muscle suit, of hate. Continue reading
don’t want to be stereotyped, you should stop sucking such good dick.
Don’t read this if it’s about you.
I went on a date this week with a girl who actually has a nice body. Can you imagine? A girl, off the internet, whose weight was as advertised. We all know that OKCupid weight classes are two words for OK and then fifteen synonyms for fat, and you know when you go out with someone here they’re going to be at least thirty pounds over what their photos would lead you to believe. It’s just a hazard of internet dating. Something you accept. The girl who shows up is substantially fatter than her photos. Every. Single. Time.
And I was cool with that—I don’t mind if a chick is a little “thick,” or even “plump—“ basically, I have no standards and will fuck anything that moves, and the virtue of internet dating is no one has to see what you’re doing. I won’t email with someone who has “a few extra pounds,” because we all know what a cruel joke that word “few” is in this context, but “curvy,” sure. “Average,” why not. It’s never the “average” for women between the ages of 18 and 29 in Los Angeles, CA, the most body-conscious city on the entire face of the Earth; these girls generously judge themselves by the national average. But still. Fine. Continue reading
I was eating salads every day at the height of my male anorexia. I thought that salads were this kind of calorie-free bulk. On the back of the monster lawn-and-leaf-bag-sized baby greens package it says that one serving has fifteen calories and there are only five servings per bag. With things like that they inflate the serving size so it looks like you get more vitamin A and shit; not like chips where a vending machine bag of Doritos has enough servings to last a family for a year.
So I was eating big salads, but I stopped losing weight. And this is because I was putting two tablespoons of dressing on there— a reasonable amount— but two tablespoons of dressing has as many calories as a Hershey bar. And I was putting two cubic inches of chopped cheddar cheese on there— and two cubic inches of chopped cheddar cheese has as many calories as a Krispy Kreme doughnut. It was like a goddamn horror movie for me when I finally read the calorie counts on the various condiments and trimmings in my fridge. A tiny amount of food would always turn out to have this hellaciously huge amount of calories—like, if you burned a chunk of cheese it should heat your house for the whole winter. It should change the fucking climate.