The first two legs of my trek were like watching Braveheart and Sex and the City. One may be much longer, but it was of significantly better quality. The only difference was, in my trip, the longer leg had all the old, decrepit, consumerist hags. By all this I mean, of course I got bumped up to business class on my flight from Atlanta to Frankfurt.
In business class you can fart and there is someone to suck it up like a bong hit as to not bother the other passengers. Seriously, no amenity is spared in the lands of hot coffee, chilled wine, and desperate 40 somethings trying to compensate for their failing marriages by drinking Champagne and scoffing at those in coach while trying to make the 8 hours pass by playing Sudoku in a Prozac-induced stupor.
I digress.
Upon landing in Germany, I noticed a few things right away. Well, I guess just one thing, and to be completely transparent it has completely dominated my cognition. Don’t think about the white bear……or in this case the fat chick. Yes that’s right, while they were letting the French eat cake, apparently the Prussians didn’t touch the stuff. I’m completely serious when I say I didn’t see one fat person at the airport or train stations. Apparently, sucking down sausage is great on the figure….or at least that’s what I’ll be telling girls when I get back home.
Now I know what you’re thinking, because for a brief moment, I did as well. This has to be great, right? No fighting back Henry VIII in the buffet line, no goofy trombone players in the school band, no underarm fat resting on your shoulders during hugs that feels like someone poured tapioca pudding in a garbage bag. But then, like the great Siddhartha Guatama (also a fatass), I came to a revelation.
I need fat chicks.
Yep, fat chicks are a commodity, not a burden. Why’s this you ask? Well, when I get drunk and desperate at the bar after being rejected by a countless amount of females, where do I turn? Who will be there holding me in the morning when I roll over, and mortified by my actions from the night before, draw a boiling bath and slowly rock back and forth in the fetal position? Goddamn it, I’ll tell you who. The same person that was there when the Diet Coke was invented. The same person that was there when McDonald’s started telling people their food was healthy and believed them. The same girl that revolutionized wearing a butt on the front of your pants, not just the back. And that same girl who kidnapped Hans Solo and kept us on the edge of our seat as we contemplated his fate. I’ll tell you who. The fat chick.
So be careful what you wish for, and tell Mr. Rick Santorum that we don’t need to cut food stamps because America has an obesity problem. And no Mr. Santorum, we don’t want our women to be stuck in the house cooking, cleaning, and eating all the Bugles. No, we are a country founded on the principles of reckless consumption. So this one is for you fat chicks. We love you. America! America! America!
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