Irreverent Distractions No4
The Fat of the gLand
Copyright © Dave Lassut 2011
Published by Wonky Books at Smashwords
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Important note: Don’t forget to laugh.
FRANKIE’S IRREVERENT DISTRACTIONS 4
‘THE FAT OF THE gLAND’
(Insult therapy for the gravitationally challenged)
Please be OFFENDED, it will take your mind of the stress-pile which is your life.
In full support of political correctness.
Some people have weird tastes, such as the guy who decorated my room long before I turned up. I reckon he was colour-blind. It is a sort of red/pink wall, with a deep blue carpet, and it acts as a cross between a black hole and an invisibiliser i.e. anything dark finds itself on the floor, it is lost. I can trip over something, with the lights on, not see it, pick it up, walk out of the room, and suddenly in my arms is a four foot dead rat; I’d rather a muff any day.
It has something to do with living with my three poxy low energy bulbs held in my crystal chandelier, which is the light output equivalent of having a torch with a depressed glow worm in it.
Well, the other day I was falling about all over the place, tripping over what could have been anything, which led to me rapidly getting fed up; and I don’t like wearing a cycle helmet indoors, as I look and feel such a fool. I therefore decided to go out and hit the city, and praise the miserable city style concrete greyness, against which you can see anything, as long as it isn’t grey that is.
I won’t leave the house though if it is either pissing it down, or red hot.
And so, I opened the front door, and stuck out my arm, after first giving my finger a little auto BJ to wet it up to the second knuckle. It was looking good, as I didn’t feel the skin peel off my arm and detected no hiss as the ‘lube’ on my finger didn’t evaporate in 0.00001 micro seconds. Mind you, it isn’t 2012 yet, and apparently the world leaders are still on the planet and not halfway to Mars in a luxury spaceship, flicking the Vs out of the windows at the plebs left behind. I actually felt my finger go cold, and when I dared look out, it was overcast with some black clouds ... it was ‘cool!’.
Yeah!
I put on a jumper, an armless overcoat, and my N-ozone layer baseball cap, and a pair of cool shades, both of which I put in my pocket in case of the end of the world ‘flash’, which could happen at any time; it is hazardous when your pupils shrink that quickly, and it is a bit pointless taking two paracetamol if it’s the end of the world, because you will be a frazzle before they have taken effect, which is a bit of a waste of time and money.
I turned off my room lights, and the things on the carpet disappeared even further into another dimension (apparently I have to die in order to clean up effectively).
Halfway to the city centre, the usual happened. Suddenly the clouds parted, and the Sun came out, and it rapidly went from refreshing arctic, to Sahara desert, and I was stuck in the open right in the middle of it; there was an immediate hosepipe ban. I felt the tug on my optical system and a scream from my brain’s visual cortex as the sudden ‘bright light! Bright light!’ made me feel like Mogwai, and worse of all, I began to get hot, and sweaty ... old sticky knickers was about to hit town. I blamed my eyes on living for so long with those bloody fucking shit bastard twat twat whoring energy saver bastard bulbs. Mind you, I could have put the bulb from a WW2 searchlight in my room (a spare from Coventry Cathedral’s bulb cupboard) and I would still trip over unseen things no doubt.
My emergency panic routine in such awful conditions, was then to remove jumper, out of the pocket and on with the sunglasses and baseball cap, and hope to survive in this hostile environment, where managers in garden centres were trying to figure how to sell more hoses in the hosepipe ban.
Water sprayed out of me as if I was a shower head, and my inner thermostat went onto danger overload! The only question I could ask, was, “Why do I feel like this when everyone else seems to be lapping the murderous UV up?” (Infra red is the other type of light which you can’t see, and infra bread is an invisible wholemeal loaf; but somehow they manage to scan it and charge you). The answer which floated into my head, was ‘Cos I’m gravitationally challenged. No, on second thoughts, I’m a fat ‘bastard’.
I pulled in my stomach to prove myself wrong, ‘Cos you’re a fat bastard who obviously has Aixerona Nervosa’. Aixerona Nervosa fat bastards are like reverse anorexics, they see themselves as thin in the mirror. The thing is with Cixerona fat bastards, is if they pull their gut in, their arses sticks out more, so really, it’s a no win situ. If you are talking to someone and thinking all you want is sex with them, and so have no idea what the fuck they are rambling on about due to your undressing them in your mind, pull your gut in, but if you fall over forwards for any reason, stick your gut out, you should bounce up again. The only drawback with doing that is that you may fart and follow through; which can immediately rip your mind away from any conversation. For instance, if Chris Tarrant said “Congratulations, you’ve just won a million pounds!” You wouldn’t hear him if you farted and followed through. Your biggest worry if you’re a fat bastard is how you’re gonna wipe your ass when it’s so far away under deep protective cover. It is a definite concern.
I then did a bit of wishful thinking, and invented something on the spot. I came up with, wait for it, the Fat Bastard’s Anti Sweat Station, because my sweaty uncomfy state was obviously the fault of far too much efficient insulation. What good greenhouses fat bastards would make, with the only problem getting the tubby, smelly individuals transparent, so the gut flora and the tomato seeds in the anus could get the light, and the ‘grower’ could actually see when the crop was ready. Mind you, fat bastards don’t eat tomatoes, except if they are in 32”, twelve cheese, deep base cheese filled crust pizzas with extra beef dripping and extra extra mayonnaise that is.
This station would consist of a number of hoses with one centimetre sharp syringe ends, and all the ‘blimp’ would have to do is stick the needle into the slithery fat reservoir, drop in the pound, and have some instant liposuction.
Instant Liposuction! £1.00
Instructions:
Insert needle into offending area.
Insert one pound coin.
Hoover up your sad lifestyle.
Remove fat dripping syringe when your cheeks pull in and your wobbly jowl tightens up. Then they can do the same with the legs and the ass. The only problem is, city folk are usually operating off one brain cell, and are socially inept, and a little on the domestically fucking useless side of things. This means that the fat syringes would have to be rubbed down with a tissue before use, as the last person would have just left it for someone else to do, and they do tend to gather flies in the sticky, decomposing mass.
So, fat person walks up to the station, and an ex fat person walks away ... excellent!
In Coventry there would be a queue of women with beer guts.
If the ex fat bastard has loads of loose skin, I suggest they just tuck it into their pants, or if it is on their legs, into the top of your socks.
For the women, there is a Fat Station Beauty Salon on the end of the station, for post liposuction. If you are from one of the surrounding housing estates, i.e. Fatt Close, or Obese Road, there is a brush, just like on a car wash, where you can scrub your fanny if you’re going out on the pull, and, additionally, if you want a baby cos you’re bored, you can use one of the many needles in the box, fill it with fat from the tank through the hole in the side (you’ll recognise it, it will have flies around it sucking away hungrily ... just like you will be later). This can then be injected into your lips giving you the perfect BJ trout pout, which, when used properly, guarantees you will be pregnant before the pubs shut, and so you will have another baby to amuse you for a short while. You can have as many babies as you want with this system, until you get one that actually does what you shout at it to do. You will also be able to get the machine to give you a leaflet to help you on in life. The leaflet is called ‘Choose a jail for your baby’ Choose now, not many cells left as our jails are fully booked up to twenty years in advance. Housing estates are such wonderful places to find life’s anti-matter.
If you are a Fat Bastard female with a now sweet smelling fanny, you may even get to use your own fat for your lips, providing you do the lipo first.
FAT WOBBLY SMELLY UGH PEOPLE
The only people who can get away with this state, and then only sometimes, are women. They insist that fat is a beauty product, as it produces, ‘more to love’.
My favourite fat bastard story concerns a man who worked in an establishment I knew. At the end of each day, they were brought home on a bus, as the establishment, a military base was a few miles from the town in which they lived. Little did they all know, but the wobbler was actually a bomb, which had been fermenting for nearly 24 hours. He had consumed a large jar of cockles, and then drank the vinegar too. When he went off, the invisible cloud entered the nostrils of the people on the bus. There was such a panic for oxygen, that the only way to survive was to jump out of the back door of the speeding bus, as the blimp was at the front. How no one was killed by the traffic behind the bus, but, it makes you think of what the smell was like when death was an acceptable alternative.
Sometimes even now, people come across flocks of dead birds on the floor, or floating in the sea, which cannot be explained; well, it can actually; the cloud is still active. I wonder what it would smell like to cockles?
Fat bastards have a general excuse for their wobble “It’s my glands”.
No it isn’t, you’re a lazy fat twat (offence intended remember).
No one’s body has ever taken in a sausage, and processed ten. No one has ever laid one brick on the floor and ended up with a house.
It has everything to do with F-attitude.
When, tell me, was a SS guard ever heard saying in a death camp, “Oi! Achtung! Come here you fat, subhuman, non Aryan piece of Jew trash! I have a new club I want to test out on your sub human non Aryan skull! Now! Raus!”
There were no fat people in death camps. Well, none came out, anyway.
But, useless fat twats must be useful for something, mustn’t they?
So. Why do fat bastards exist?
I could think of two applications for bulbous obesity straight away.
1: Office, organic pigeon holes ...
They would be ideal for this job, as all they tend to do is sit or lay in the same spot every day anyway, rotting, and wondering why they can’t move, and believing it’s because their glands are working overtime making fat from nothing, couple that with the fact they have ‘big’ bones (the other famous excuse) ... And they have Aixerona and think they are thin, so, nothing makes any sense in the world of blubber glubber. All these thought go whirling round fatso’s head while, to comfort him or herself, they have four sausage sandwiches, a side of bacon, three milkshakes and a fifteen inch deep base pizza while they watch morning TV (Gland trouble? Big bones? LOL! Pig and pizza trouble).
The only victim, if you can call it a victim, is the fart that is unable to fathom how to get out into the air, and travel the world on the many available winds (not forgetting fat’s favourite wind i.e. the Slip Stream).
So then, what needs to be done here is to first hire out flabby arse through a work agency, after getting that Fairy Jobmother to stick her wand into the flab in an encouraging manner, and then remove either the bedroom wall or the living room wall, if they are too far gone for their legs to support a walk to the special van waiting outside. The wall is removed to get the crane in. When in the van, they are fitted onto a special reinforced swivel chair with a big double seat, which is imbibed with an anaesthetic, to avoid ‘bed’ sores. There is no back to the chair (for good reason), and so, they wear a special helmet. Their legs go into two steel boots, which hold them steady.
They are then transported to the office, and placed in position, most likely in the mail room. There is a one inch telescopic steel pole attached to a bearing on the ceiling. This is hooked onto the eye on the top of the helmet, and this helps the body to remain on the chair if the bleb falls asleep. The bag of gloop can then be rotated, and the folds of fat can be used to grip letters, or hold pencils, or even to insert the lunchbox and warm up the contents (hence no back on the chair). If it gets really boring in the office, a couple of them can maybe be let off the chairs to entertain everyone with a bit of Sumo wrestling?
If at any point the letters begin to fall out, just feed the rotary pigeon hole a large box of cheap sausages.
In no circumstances allow to go to the gym.
Toilet?
There is a hole in the bottom of the chair, and a tube is inserted into the butt, which leads to a bucket. Pee? A cow milking teat with a tube.
If you ever receive an official looking letter with sweat rings on one end, you know where it has been.
2.A more environmental use would be to use the Multi Nesting Box model in your garden. These fat fuckers come on a reinforced ‘jack up’ chair (large car jack which they use in tyre stations), which you stand in your garden. Plastic rugby ball shape, and sized, injection moulded ‘nest boxes, with tit sized entry tubes are then placed in the fat fold around what used to, at one time, be the stomach. Up to ten blue tits can nest at once. The incubation temperature is already achieved due to the interaction between the special thermal plastic of the nesting box, and the between fat folds of blubberguts (I just added a tenner to the price!).
A hat with a bird table atop it is worn, and this again has a pole attachment which can be tied to a tree branch, or to a special stand, to keep Bluto blubberlub upright. Grey squirrel problems will be a thing of the past, because all fat fuck does is grab the little bastard, smother it under a sweaty arm pit, and then most probably eat it; waste not want not. Many squirrel tails have been found in Fat Droppings which fall through the strategically placed hole in the chair.
A LITTLE MORE ON BIG BONES AND EFFICIENT GLANDS
Jelly bellies have big bones, which is why they are so fat.
No they don’t, they have Big eyes, big mouths, big stomachs, big appetites, and hence, BIG problems.
The body is only so good and can only work so fast. For instance, a fat gutwobble can eat a side of pig very quickly, but ... can the body process a side of pig in 24 hours? The answer has to be no, or fat people may then be slim? Some of it has to be shifted aside, or the person would be constantly pooing like a goldfish, but that wouldn’t work, especially if the fat person was mobile ... except if:
MY invention. I call it the ‘Equivalent Machine’ i.e. one hundred sausages in, one hundred sausages out. A side of pig must be about that.
I nearly called it the Constapoo.
It consists of a sticky one side, four inch diameter, plastic disc, which has a one and a half inch hole in the middle, which glues onto the ass with the hole over the ass hole. Over this hole is fixed a twenty to thirty inch length of sausage skin which has the end knotted. The whole thing is less than a centimetre wide. As the flubbergut begins to poo the side of pig out, a sausage is formed. But, this would be uncomfy to carry round in the limited amount of space in the bottom covering material. So, a slit is cut across the material where the anus is (if the person isn’t sure, they can stick the pointed end of a pencil through to mark the spot; care is needed here, obviously. The end of the sausage skin is pulled through the slit, and fastened to the ‘belt winding device’. This consists of a smaller version of a banned hosepipe holder, one that turns round. As they poo, they then turn the handle, and therefore wind the poo sausage onto the holder. When the side of pig is all accounted for i.e. they stop pooing, the device can be unclipped from the belt, and the sausage can be tied off, removed, and then they can do what they like with it? Maybe give the rings of sausages (instructions on how to tie a sausage like a butcher is included) to someone they don’t like? Someone who said “You should lay off the sausages you fat twat!”
This could be the best slimming device ever invented.
Burying a dead fat blubbergut.
Use a big coffin.
This means that fat people eventually use up a lot of trees, which isn’t at all environmentally friendly.
Think about it. De forestation, which is a big problem; but why?
Here’s why. It is so bloody obvious, you’re going to kick yourself; but not if you’re a fat bastard, cos it’s too far for the leg to travel, except that is if your bum is below your kneecaps.
If you’re male by the way, and married to a huge female who eats like a horse but has big bones and gland problems, and she buys some new jeans, and asks you, “Does my bum look big in these?” be careful, the answer isn’t the usual. The answer is, “No love, it looks fucking huge.”
If you say, “No love, it looks lovely and pert”, she will know you’re lying; you wake up in A&E; they can pack a punch can Jellybelly girls. At worse, if you answer correctly, you will simply pass out for five minutes or so due to lack of oxygen to your brain. You see, when you tell her it looks gigantic, she will grip your throat with both sets of fat fingers, and look deep into your eyes, and growl, “But, it’s more of me to love, isn’t it?!” ... You will want to answer “Of course love”, but of course, you can’t. She will let go when you have gone purple and your eyes have almost popped out of their sockets.
The de forestation point I was trying to make before inspiration rudely butted in:
They take down the forests in order to graze cattle for fast food restaurants, which fat bastards gorge down like a shark feeding frenzy, and the fat family is created. Then, as they get their condition related dis-eases. They have heart attacks and stuff, and then each corpse demands a very large coffin, hence a giant redwood; hence de forestation. And on it goes.
So, consider, do they give anything back?
YES!
They are actually walking environmental safety precautions.
Nature is very clever, and creatures exist in the most inhospitable places. Now, you must have heard of ‘flat fish’? But, have you heard of Fat fish? Well, yes of course you have i.e. “Hey! That’s a nice fat eel you have there.” It isn’t though. Eels are slim, or thick, but never fat.
But, what if very very fat people didn’t exist? Where would all the fat go? I’ll tell you. It would all end up in a very large lake, or even a sea. Nature would be then obliged to populate it, with fat fish, or, fish that have gills that can extract the oxygen from the slippery gloop. Fat and very obese people are therefore carrying units for that ocean of fat which would be just that if it wasn’t for these people who are generous enough to take the load.
There is only one plus point to having, let’s say, a ‘sea’ of fat. People who wanted to swim the fat channel wouldn’t have to grease down first. Would this work ... would the moon cause fat tides? Surfing would be easier, but, would the big ships go easier too?
Would foolish people who see the opaque fat sea mistake it for wallpaper paste, and try and save a few quid in B&Q, only to experience no matter what they did, the wallpaper just kept sliding down the wall?
I reckon oil slicks would be easier to handle, but, sharks could be more dangerous. For instance, imagine you are visiting a rocky cove, and there is one particular rock which people like to sit or lie on. This rock is big, and long, and the perfect place to chill. But, what if the shark, a Great White Fatspalsher knows this?
It would splash the rock with fat early in the morning, and then unsuspecting people would walk onto it and immediately become the shark’s breakfast, or lunch, or tea, etc. But this is all disallowed by fat bastards who carry the world’s excess fat around in their skin, and so keep this evil sea away from our world. We should be grateful. We should give 10% of our earnings, as a tithe to feed the blubber people. We should offer to go round their houses and feed them cheap sausages and beefburgers etc, and then, when grilled, mop the fat up in a loaf of bread, season it with mayo, and give them that too, for that fat is a ‘sea’ in the Universe of possibilities.
People complain at this, and say, we should go round and feed the old, because they fought for freedom in this country. True, but how can you be free when most people’s minds are trapped in suppression and misery. So, the old folks? Help them? Naaa. Fuck them, they are not only useless, but on the way out anyway; ok, and they stink of piss, which is worse than the fat asshole’s BO.
Old people? Save time. Nail their doors shut and get the cockle fart man to have a bucket of cockles and cockle vinegar which is past the sell by date, and then fart through their letter boxes; it will beat the old death camp Zyklon B any day, and it’s cheaper! Better for the economy.
Long Live Fat Bastards!
In the meantime, Jamie Oliver is sticking his nose in and trying to get American Kids and families to lay off the crap the system is feeding them, and eat healthy, in order to stop things like diabetes, etc. If he succeeds, there will be no more fat people, and the waters will rise and we will all drown in the ‘got nowhere else to go’ fat. Imagine that slipping down your nose and throat as your life passes before your eyes. But then, if the fat, being denser than seawater, displaces the seawater, does that mean the planet is going to be completely flooded with two layers of liquid, and lumpy liquid, death?
Well, not really if global warming can be made a bit more rapid. Just think, as Jamie exorcises the fat out of people, and it then, and future fat has to find its new home, which is the space currently occupied by the sea, and at the same time we can forget this carbon footprint crap and go for two big ones each, and step up industry i.e. build factories that produce nothing more than toxic ozone layer destroying gas, and speed up warming (it’s fine as long as the economy is strong, and we continue to chase Al Qaida, while diligently working hard to pay the bills). Then, as the waters rise, they will evaporate extremely quickly, meaning we won’t drown.
Mind you, it will be very cloudy, and cool; so there’s a plus point!
Of course, you can still have fish as nature adapts fish very quickly to breathing fat, but, just think, the meal will taste great being cooked in:
GLOOP! ‘New sea chip fat’, containing Polyunsaturated unfaturates, and new, omega 2.5, the NEW omega 3.
Delightful!
By the way, are you having a thick and creamy yoghurt for dinner?
Down with Jamie Oliver. He is Satan!
Fatmaggeddon is coming!
***
Grand Finalé
Fat Fat Fat (make your own tune up)
It’s ok being a jelly belly
It can get you on the telly
TV doctor says, ‘eat some salad’
I say ‘rabbit food?! Are you bloody - mad?!”
Cho
I want ‘fat fat fat’ to oil my joints
Don’t want any, slimming club points
Bollocks to healthy, I’ll stay fat
Then I can lay around all day, like a lazy twat
A heart attack I would presume
Would be the only way for me to leave the room
Then they lug me to the morgue
And end up burning me like a Yuletide log
A feast-ive end to a jelly belly dog.
Cho
I want ‘fat fat fat’ to oil my joints
Don’t want any, slimming club points
Bollocks to healthy, I’ll stay fat
Then I can lay around all day like a lazy twat
A NEW SPORT?
People do the strangest things.
The other day I went down the city centre, and entered the chaos from opposite the Evening Telegraph offices. That way gives you a sort of not as busy runway, before you hit the main gladiatorial arena where the main shopping part is. I noticed something coming towards me quicker than walking speed. It is usually a skateboarder, but this was bigger, and lower (person included of course). It was a man in a wheelchair. Strangely though, he was pushing the wheels with his hands, and running along the floor with his feet at the same time. Now, why would a cripple do this? I thought that the purpose of a wheelchair was because legs didn’t work?
It could have been someone from a housing estate, because they like to do things like that, because it isn’t much fun living on a housing estate. So, in order to have some fun, they could maybe stop a wheelchair, throw the person out, preferably over a bridge or into a canal, and hijack the chair. Or, since Coventry is going to be hosting part of the Olympics, it may be a new event? It could even be a hybrid event, i.e. A. Wheelchair Acrobatic Trial. This is a cross between the paralympic wheelchair races, acrobatics, football, and skateboarding.
Imagine if you will, a person in an ordinary wheelchair, going down a handrail, on two wheels. Or speeding up to a football and seeing if the athlete can kick the ball further than the other athletes. That sort of thing you know. At the end, it could be that the athletes could jump out of the chairs, climb up a rope, press a buzzer at the top, then get back in the chair and speed over the finish line; bit like Gladiators. Mind you, if they do that, the course will be blocked by thousands of people with guitars singing gospel songs claiming the miracle ground for their particular insane, sick creed. Be good ‘inter-sick-creed’ scrap though.
Interesting.
ANOTHER NEW SPORT.
Went to the market some while back, to buy some trainers. I find it easier to think about training when I wear trainers, sort of gets you into the spirit of things.
There was an old old old man there looking at slippers with his old old old wife. Looking at slippers? What’s to look at? They’re slippers? What does an old old old man want with style? Maybe he wanted a pair that blended well with the lining of his coffin? Maybe he didn’t want people talking about the clash of colours as they viewed him in the chapel of rest? You never know, he could have been a fashion designer in his time? Or a Jewish Tailor? Maybe it was his wife who didn’t want the shame of ‘no taste’?
I noticed that there was no maker’s symbol on the footwear. It is funny how a symbol can affect you isn’t it. Take the Swastika for instance; a symbol for well-being, love and peace actually; not the unwellbeing of political master race ideology.
He then did something strange, he took a little unfast run, and did that sideways skid thing which kids and some adults (me) like to do on ice or slippy flattened snow. He did about six inches. His wife shook her head. No good?
The stallholder then gave him a pair with ticks on. He smiled, as did his wife; old old old smiles. He put them on, and began to run round the stall, and he quickly picked up speed, so much in fact that the clothes on the opposite stall began to waft in the breeze he produced. He screeched round the corners, but didn’t skid.
Amazing!
I asked his wife what he was doing, as I was flabbergasted.
“He’s practicing for the Olympics. There’s a new race where the pensioner is given a head start, and they race the people who do the indoor bike races. It’s like the hare and the tortoise crossed with greyhound racing. It’s either that or go down the daycentre and moan about the weather.”
Good point.
“How does he manage to run so fast? I mean, old uns aren’t exactly renowned for speed, only for dribbling and whingeing.”
“Carbon fibre hip replacements, and eats a lot of ostrich meat.”