Your momma’s so fat, when the doctor stuck his little needle into her butt, all he hit was more fat

You’ll feel a little prick. I’ll try not to make it hurt too much. Hey, that’s what he said!

Against the odds, there’s unfortunately a purpose to this essay beyond shambling vulgarity. John Tesh ran an item the other day along the lines of the title, but with Irishmen substituted for your mother. He found a study from some hospital in Dublin in which patients were found to have such fat asses that medicine injected into their buttocks wasn’t entering their bloodstreams because the needles weren’t long enough, so clinicians had to pester medical supply manufacturers for longer needles or something.

The backstory here, of course, is that the Irish weren’t getting nearly enough to eat circa 1845, so to make up for it they’re getting far too much to eat in modern times. Fiddle dee diddly dee and pass the Colcannon, m’love. Needless to say, John Tesh didn’t mention any of this history and culture, which would be too darkly Irish for proper American tastes. We really aren’t ones to appreciate the honesty of certain distant relatives we left behind in the old country, you know. Instead, he mentioned the findings of this study as a sort of conversation starter about obesity and a reason to lose weight. There are plenty of good reasons for fatties to lose weight, but “in case the doctor has to stick a needle into your rear end” should never be one of them. If it is, your spending too much time in doctors’ offices and a lot more is wrong with you than just being fat. Maybe John Tesh caters to the sort of chronically unhealthy people who routinely need to have syringes plunged into their butt meat. Maybe his audience is the Pareto power players whose medical expenses, as inflated by the insurers and the ass-covering medical practices, bankrupt us all.

Americans always have the stupidest fucking reasons for losing weight, or alternately for not losing it. Chris Christie’s position on M&M’s being bangin’ is one of the few coherent ones, in spite of the garbage quality of that particular chocolate. There was also this Carlisle PD sergeant, one of the good ones, who seemed to figure that he enjoyed eating more than he minded hiking up his pants in public every minute or two and not reliably being able to walk a thirty-minute mile. Otherwise it’s pretty much the grotesquely obese insisting that they’re healthy, sexy, and aesthetically pleasing to all reasonable people, or else the barely overfed idle neurotically, frantically engaging in masturbatory furies of gym exercise in the desperate hope of being sexy for their chauvinistic wackjob boyfriends. There are men who think that women should lose weight as mitzvahs of sexiness. I heard an absurd comment the other day from a friend who talked about an ex-girlfriend finally deciding to turn her life around and step up to the plate, as if she’d gotten off drugs and gone back to school, before mentioning that her big accomplishment was bringing sexy back by dropping the twentager fat. Hence the two-headed source of food wastage in the First World: the big fuckers who eat too much but at least put all the calories to some use, and the neurotically skinny who throw away half or two thirds of the portions originally plated for the longshoremen but now supersized for the supersized. The latter is also why we need Mexicans to pick salad greens for bougie chicks who never think they’re getting enough exercise or enough starvation. #LeanIn, by which I mean #LeanOver for the next nine hours.

Of course thick bitches start getting all up in other people’s faces about the pride they take in being thick as a reaction to the catty neurosis of their underfed sisters. Some of these women are plump like Lt. Benson, and hence fully ambulatory. Others are plump like Roseanne Barr, and no less narcissistic and just plain fucked up. This is known on television as big sexy. That’s the name of an actual reality (sic) show, or at least was a few years ago. I learned about it in a hospital, which is where the cast will end up, maybe on the cardiology service but definitely on the psych service. The teaser I saw showed fat narcissists just this side of physically grotesque and far across the threshold of temperamental ugliness dressing up like cheap tramps and doing cannonballs into a swimming pool for F-list attention. It was unbelievable that such a documentary existed.

John Tesh presumably wants these women to lose weight so that they’re less prone to adipositivity of ass. A reasonable person would want them to lose weight so that they’re deprived of their garbage niche in a television genre that the FCC ought to barrel-bomb, but we’re talking about John Tesh here. Tesh always sounds like he had to have the producer teach him how to pronounce half a dozen new words during the last Kelly Clarkson track. “Dubrovnik: Is that Croatian for ‘hospital,’ or is that where Croatia has its hospital?” He never sounds like he understands what he’s saying when he talks about science, and unfortunately he talks about science quite a bit. It’s some shit that his intern found after keyword-searching the medical literature for “obesity,” and it’s from some random-ass hospital in Helsinki, so he doesn’t have a prayer of being able to pronounce it. At least the Finnish fatties aren’t usually so fucking slovenly. Fat women around Puget Sound, too, tend to have some self-respect and some physical fitness. But the Scotch? The English? My God.

Next time you’re in Klamath Falls, be sure to tune into Sunny 107, the Basin’s Soft Rock Station, for more Intelligence For Your Life and tutelage in the fine art of heterosexuality by musical acts including One Direction.


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