Pound for pound, simply the best
06/07/2002
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Today, I'd like to honor a special group of women.
A group of women typically left out of the public eye.
Women who represent a large, vitally important part of our population.
More large than important, though.
Women who, as a whole, are…well, there are a whole lot of them.
In quantity. In volume.
And in their daily consumption of Peter Pan Crunchy Peanut Butter.
Yes, today, I'd like to give a big shout out to all the fat chicks.
Yo yo yo. Whassup, Ellbees. Damn, youse bitches are some phat fat.
Uknowhatimsayin'?
Dumpling Darlings, while most men frown upon your big, oversized bellies and your excessively large heinies, I'm here to say, "Thank God you're really fat and not just pregnant."
While most men look at you and think, "Look at those sickening mounds of lard. Look at that triple chin. Look at that huge chest. Look at…well, y'know, come to think of it, I could work with that chest," I'm here just to say, "Thank you for who you are."
The world's foremost consumers of Hostess Cupcakes.
I want to thank you for being you because each and every one of you brings sunshine and happiness to my life every day.
Your humongous, floppy arms make me smile. Your waddle brings joy to my heart. And I'm passionate about the 17 layers of blubber under your bellybutton.
You girls have made me as happy as double fudge brownies make you.
The irony is, Ladies of Lard, I used to be repulsed by your sight.
When I saw your piles of rolling skin, I would turn away, in fear of being sickened.
The mere thought of having to place my eyes upon your gut was gut wrenching.
When I saw one of you, I'd be angry, knowing that you could be blocking my view of a good-looking woman. As opposed to you, a Pork-Butt Fatso.
I'd be angry because I knew there could be a nice ass hidden behind your roly-poly one.
Or a great smile being blocked by your mouth stuffed with pizza.
Or a cute girl in a tight belly shirt screened behind your size 24 Lane Bryant jeans which were holding up 11 ½ extra inches of dangling gut skin.
I used to consider you a nuisance because you just got in the way of me being able to see the women I wanted to see.
Oh, how times have changed. How we've both changed.
I've opened my eyes. And you've gotten fatter.
Thank the dear Lord for Oreos.
You see, I always considered myself a bit of a snob when it came to looking at women. I had always been discriminating in the kinds of women I admired.
The truth is, I was constantly looking for it. Her.
The perfect woman.
Shannon Elizabeth. Catherine Zeta-Jones. The maid on the Jeffersons.
And while I've realized that the burden of looking at beautiful women is a heavy burden for one man to uphold, I just never realized that when I said it was a heavy burden, I was talking about your hips.
Naturally, you can only imagine my frustration that while I was out seeking perfection, my sight lines were constantly impeded by you, the Butterball Brigade.
But the thing is, darling, sweet Tub-of-Goo Girls, I've come to realize that you were what's missing in my life.
Mrs. Arthur Treachers, what you've done is attacked my senses with such volume and such consistency that you've brought me down to your level.
That's correct. Thanks to your asses en masse, I've lowered my women-viewing standards.
Because you're impossible to ignore, I now compare every woman I look at to you. And I can't begin to thank you enough for that.
So, thank you.
Now I find myself being attracted to women that I wouldn't have even given the time of day to just a couple of years ago.
Women who I wouldn't have given a second look are now the objects of my affection.
No longer do I look at women and compare them to Cameron Diaz.
The question now is, "Is she hotter than Camryn Manheim?"
No longer do I grade women on a scale of one to 10.
Now, a five is "Hot." A four is "Pretty hot." And a three is "Hey, not bad for a bald chick."
Compared to you, my Round Mounds of Bacon Grease, a 39-year-old mother of six is no different than Miss June.
And so today, I wanted to take the time to thank you, my SOFTIES.
Super Obese Flatulating Tonage Ingrates Eating Spam.
Thanks to you, I now get even more pleasure in my life.
Thanks to you, I no longer have to live in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, I'm going to see a perfect woman once every few months. Now, my eyes have been opened to a whole new lot of women.
Now I get to see hot chicks every single day. And even if they aren't really hot, they certainly are compared to you.
Hey, would you like another burrito?
Now I look at women with serious flaws and think about how good they'd be in bed. As long as there was total darkness, the blinds were shut, no one knew about it, and I was wearing one of those sleeping mask thingies.
But still, it's the thought that counts, y'know?
Great Porkbellied Pudgeballs, you've shown me the light.
But only when you move to the left and stop blocking the sun with your huge, floppy boobs.
And for that, I'm forever indebted.
I don't know what I could ever say or ever do to thank you for what you've done for me other than, "Who wants a corndog?"
And to think, all this time I've spent mocking you. Chiding you. Teasing you about the rolls of fat on your neck. Your ugly dimply inner thighs.
Please forgive me.
No longer am I going to tease you behind your back about how fat you are, or how slow you walk, or if you could light a cigarette with the friction between your thighs.
Keep eating, my Stouffer Sensations. Keep eating.
Never again will I joke about your size.
Never again will I say, "Hey lady, I heard you're so fat, you said your weight on cable TV and they bleeped it out."
Because that would be mean.
Never again will I say, "Hey lady, I heard that when you wear a Malcolm X t-shirt, helicopters try to land on your back."
Because that would be mean.
Never again will I say, "Hey lady, you're so fat, you make Free Willy look like a Tic-Tac."
Because that would be mean. Funny, but mean.
Instead of thinking that you all need to drop 50, I now encourage each and every one of you to keep eating.
If you like, I can send you fried chicken recipes. And cake recipes. And coupons for free ice cream. Because the worse you look, the better the rest of these women look.
When I see you, the next woman I see looks great in comparison.
So thank you, my sweet dairy queens, for bringing me down to your level.
I used to go out of my way to not see you. Now I go out of my way to find you.
And since there are so many of you, it's never hard to catch a glimpse of your gluttoness ways.
Now, everywhere I turn, there you are. One of you. Two of you. Ten of you.
Or maybe it is just one big fat of you. I can't really tell.
Mrs. Paul worshippers, I'd like to kiss your feet. In part to thank you.
And in part to remind you that you do in fact still have feet. Because I'd be willing to bet that you haven't seen them in five or 30 years.
Yes, you Ovary-Filled Human Beachballs have done me a great favor.
You've given me happiness that I never thought I could find.
I didn't think it was possible, but thanks to your sagging ankle fat, I can now find redeeming value in virtually every woman 230 pounds or less.
No longer do I just care about long legs, tight asses, great faces and nice chests.
Now, all I care about is that a woman isn't mistaken for a new planet discovered in the solar system.
Before, I would look at a woman who had a nice face and a bad body and I'd think, "That woman has a nice face. But jeez, what a waste because she really needs to work on that body."
Now I look at a woman with a nice face and a bad body and I think, "Man, that chick is hot! She's got a really great face and, well, as far as that body goes...she's got a great face."
Before I would look at a woman with a horrible body and terrible face and think, "Jesus Christ. That could be the ugliest woman I've ever seen."
Now I if I look at a woman with a horrible body and terrible face, I think, "Well, y'know, all things considered, she's got a mouth."
Before I would look at a 70-year-old woman with a cane and think, "Out of my way, you dead carcass."
Now I look at a 70-year-old woman with a cane and think, "Listen, take 40 years off her and lose the arthritis and…come to papa!"
I owe it all to you, you delightful Gorging Human Balls of Excess Fatty Tissue.
This is wonderful, I tell you. I feel so liberated from my belief and ideal as to what is the definition of the perfect woman.
I've come to realize that society is wrong, and it's you who are the true beauties. Because if each and every one of you didn't choose to cram 183 Ho-Ho's down your piehole every night, I'd have nothing to compare average women to, and I'd still be nothing more than a stuck-up woman watcher.
So thank you for not caring about your cholesterol. But even more so, thank you for caring about me and my needs.
Thanks for showing me that there's more to life than long, sensuous hair, moist, thick lips and a perfect sets of curves.
There are skinny, pimply-faced, ugly white-trash chicks who deserved to be recognized. And medium ugly chicks. And slightly overweight chicks
And then there's you, The Gargantuan Ladies of Fridgidaire, who are the best "Before" picture a man could ask for.
Fat-bottomed girls, you make my rocking world go round.
I love each and every one of you.
You've made me happier than I've been in years.
In fact, if I saw one of you right now, I'd give you a hug.
Or a bag of Hugs, one of the two.
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