I am at the beach. If there’s one take-away from this visit, it’s that the bikini body is gone. Dead and buried.
I know that term implies a woman’s body, but it’s all of us, men and women. All ages, too.
We are a nation of people who have decided to adopt the Michelin Man as our role model for the perfect body.
It probably doesn’t help that I’m on the
of Mexico. In another life, I lived here for a while. It has the
most beautiful sand on the face of the earth, but I know that most of its
visitors are from South Georgia, Lower Alabama, and the bottom of Mississippi.
Deep south and chicken-fried, we are.
Look going there… big mama, fat daddy and their three little penguins waddling behind them. A family of roly-polys. Not really sure why they are expending energy walking when they could just fall over and let the wind roll them down the beach.
Hey, you can pick up these rocks and throw them right back at me. My 6-foot frame weighs a full 50 pounds more than it did when I graduated from high school. Even in the last 3 years, I’ve put on 10 pounds. I am not part of any solution.
I also know what I’m having for dinner tonight. Seafood. Fried.
I like it,
I love it.
And I’ll shove it.
Into my face. After I’ve ladled more tarter sauce on it.
I do think we’ve all gotten way too comfortable with being large. There is no other explanation for why she would be wearing that two-piece. Ain’t nobody wanna see all that.
I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why women can’t go topless, if they choose to, when you could put a t-shirt on that dude, hose him down and if size was all that mattered, he’d win any wet t-shirt contest on this beach. That he isn’t required to wear a shirt is surely evidence that men write the rules. Or that there are not yet enough women writing them to overturn ‘em.
If that lady’s bosom is more offensive than my Italian bread loaf-sized love handles, could somebody explain to me why?
I’m tempted to make a comment about tattoos here, but I really should save that for another day.
I think I’m the last man standing in the anti-tattoo camp. Besides, if you’re walking around with a back the size of a drive-in movie screen, I suppose you might as well have a show playing on it.
I must admit that I wonder sometimes about the procreation process of the Fat Family Robinson (no offense, if your name is Robinson). There would seem to be a lack of, shall we say, visual appeal.
Maybe that’s why we’re using less energy today. “Turn off the lights!!”
A lot of pundits want to blame the fast-food industry for the super-sizing of
I don’t. I think the fast-food industry follows more than it leads. We want
more, they give us more.
Because it is so bad for my already-bulging waistline, I virtually never eat fast-food. When I do, it’s usually Chick-fil-A. Two reasons: Number one, agree with their CEO’s stance on gay marriage or not (I don’t), that company is a great company that invests in the communities where they do business.
Number two, fried chicken, y’all.
My favorite all-time fast-food indulgence, though, is the Hardee’s mushroom and swiss burger. Other chains have them; Hardee’s is better. I used to allow myself to eat one once every couple of years or so. No more. The last time I pulled in will be the last time I pulled in. The reason is because like a lot of Hardee’s/Carl’s Jr. burgers, it comes in two versions: 1/3 pound and ½ pound.
Hello? Does anyone remember when the quarter-pounder was the biggest kid on the block? Introduced in 1972, it was all the rage. A fourth of a pound hamburger! Wow!
In fact, Burger King upped the Whopper to ¼ pound in 1985 because their competitors were having more success selling larger burgers. Again, don’t blame the industry, they’re following the trends.
Fast-forward to today, Hardee’s doesn’t offer the mushroom-swiss (and other burgers) in versions that small.
I’m all for capitalism, and I’m all for Hardee’s or anyone else serving what sells best for them, but every time I stand on the scale, I’m shaking my head and wondering what I can do.
Lacking the will to diet, I’ll simply back away from the half-pounder you’re serving. With fries. Because you gotta have fries, eh?
For the life of me, I cannot remember what restaurant I was in recently where the quarter-pound burger was offered only on the kids menu. No wonder our kids look like beach balls.
I hate to get all socially-conscience on you, but if we’re ever going to have a real discussion about soaring healthcare costs, maybe everyone involved should gather in the room naked.
There would likely be a whole lot to look at but probably not much you’d want to see.