2588. Daily hamburger

Melanie was fat. She was overweight. She was gross. Her diet could be ascertained to be unhealthy. The highlight of each day was to drive to the takeaway and get a hamburger with French fries. Today, for some reason, the drive-through was closed but things were getting ordered and sold inside the takeaway. Melanie parked the car, got out, crossed the road, and waddled into the building to order.

Little did she realize that this would be the last hamburger she would ever order. It wasn’t to be the last hamburger she would ever eat because she was hit by a truck while crossing the road to return to her car and that was that.

Poem 91: Thou wert my gate

I haven’t published a poem on this blog since last July, so here goes. Once again I have had the singular honour of winning the week’s “Terrible Poetry Contest”. My thanks to Chelsea, the instigator and judge. The theme for the week was “Engineering Failure”. I now know better how an astronaut feels when stepping on the surface of the moon – profoundly humbled by the experience. So here then, for your edification, is the terrible poem on “Engineering Failure”. Of course, it could double as a love poem if you want to use it for that.

Thou wert my gate
in the fence of life;
a doorway in the
corridor of existence;
a hole in the
wall of being

Now you have shut the
entrance to your heart
and I am shattered into a pile of quaking reinforced concrete.
No more will I hear your euphonious voice
wafting over the plastic barrier of time;
no more will my nostrils sense the scent
of your hair on the yellow brick road of vivacity.
Oh the audacity!

You have become an engineering failure,
a total engineering failure;
in fact you are the biggest engineering failure
I have ever encountered in my life.
And you are fat.
I wish you all the Botox you can lay your hands on.
You need it.

Strumpet! Strumpet!
You have no reason to blow your own trumpet
for thou art a total engineering failure!
Thou wert my gate
in the fence of life
but now you are just a pile of rocks –
to say nothing of your choice in tasteless frocks.

There you have it. Success has once again tempted me to blather on and on about myself – but, dear me, this is not Facebook. Mind you, I don’t belong to Facebook – or Twitter, or Instagram, or anything except this blog. I don’t even have Google Chrome. In fact, I don’t know if I’m utterly “Yesterday” or completely “Tomorrow”. I’m trying not to get spied on. I don’t even purchase anything on Amazon because of the astronomical cost of postage to New Zealand. Which accounts partly for why I am still reading stuff like Clarissa and Joseph Andrews with the odd contemporary thing thrown in that’s on hand such as John Millington Syne’s Riders to the Sea (my favourite play) and Mrs Gaskell’s Wives and Daughters.

So I hope you have a nice day – in fact a happy, happy day – and don’t feel bad if you haven’t got time to learn the above poem off by heart.

1451. Burning off the fat

Alice had been convinced by her husband to get more exercise. They were both at that stage of life when waistlines began to get a little more prodigious. Going for a regular run would burn off the fat.

Alice had to admit that she was feeling much better, apart from looking trimmer than she had for years. The daily run, once the initial sore muscles phase had been conquered, was a pleasure; almost an addiction. She no longer felt tired. She no longer felt useless. Energy poured out of her in droves. At least it did until she was out on a run and got hit by a bus.

1247. You are almost

There’s no need to fret and get upset. All I said was “You’re almost skinny enough to be a model”. I meant it as a compliment. It’s true – you are almost skinny enough to be a model. There’s nothing wrong with that. There’s no need to get upset about it.

Try to remember the positive – like the time you were fat and repulsive and you decided to do something about it. And you did. You lost a lot of unnecessary weight and you should be proud of what you’ve achieved and not upset about it. Of course, going on a diet like you did, can’t do anything about looks. That’s not my responsibility. Nor yours, to be frank. You can’t improve the face God gave you without a great deal of expense. Yet, you are almost pretty enough to be a model.

But being overweight is something you can do something about, and you did. Although all your old clothes no longer fit, and you look like a rag doll, that’s no reason to spend most of your time in tears, blubbering away like some God-forsaken lamb dressed as mutton. If you could perhaps adapt your clothes a bit I would say that you would almost be dressed well enough to be a model.

So, to sum up: you are almost skinny enough to be a model, you are almost pretty enough to be a model, and you would almost be dressed well enough to be a model to advertise the can of beans on our supermarket brochure. But you don’t quite tip the scales.

Next!

1195. Fat man’s widow

Roberto was so fat when he died that a special coffin had to be made.

“We don’t stock gigantic coffins for grossly fat people,” said the undertaker to the grieving widow. “You’ll have to get one specially made.”

The poor grieving widow had nowhere to turn. She said she couldn’t afford to have a coffin specially made, let alone a very large one. She went to see if she could get some government benefit to help out.

“We don’t pay for gigantic coffins for grossly fat dead people,” said the Government agency. “If he’d gone on a diet and exercised a bit of self-control before he kicked the bucket we might have looked at it with a bit of sympathy.”

The grieving widow went to see the pastor of the local church.

“Why would we want to help out?” asked the pastor. “Your late husband was a grossly overweight, fat pig. You can’t have your cake and eat it, although looking at the size of your dead husband I’d say he’d eaten as much cake as he could stuff in his mouth. Haw! Haw! Haw!”

By now the grieving widow was desperate and the body (still sprawled on the sofa in her sitting room) was starting to disintegrate.

“Why haven’t you got rid of the body of that disintegrating, grossly overweight, slobby fat pig?” asked the children of the dead husband’s first marriage.

“I can’t fit his corpse through the door and the undertaker won’t help out until the money for the coffin is paid up first,” said the grieving widow.

People heard of the grieving widow’s plight. Thousands of dollars were donated. The grieving widow used the donated money to go on a world cruise in an ocean liner. You can imagine the stink that caused.

Poem 40: Dare I compare you to a hippopotamus?

(The poetic form selected for this month is the English or Shakespearean Sonnet).

Dare I compare you to a hippopotamus?
You know you’re overweight and find it difficult
To wear nice clothes that fit and aren’t preposterous.
It’s really not your fault; it’s how you’re built.

You call me your giraffe because I’m thin.
I try to eat a lot but nothing works.
I walk on legs that look like skinny pins.
You laugh at me, and yes! your laughter irks.

But what a pair we are! The butt of jokes!
The fatty and the skinny grocery shopping!
One short, one tall, a pair, a gal and bloke,
The hippo and giraffe, one lean, one whopping.

And yet you are my love, my day, my night,
My sun, my moon, my stars, my world, my light.

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

985. Fat, tasteless, and a sore loser

When Tristan entered a competition to win a car, he was pretty sure he’d be in the running to win. You had to say in seven words something clever about a certain brand of king-sized chocolate bar. Tristan knew he’d come up with an unbeatable seven words.

Anyway, Cesaria, the fat lady from down the road, won the car. She was a great big fat lady, and Tristan wasn’t surprised she’d won because she was so fat she looked like she’d been eating nothing but king-sized chocolate bars for half a century.

There was a choice of colour when it came to the car, and Cesaria picked the yellow one. It was bright yellow; sort of the colour of baby’s poo. How tasteless. Cesaria wasn’t just fat, fat, fat; she also had no taste; no aesthetic sense whatsoever.

She said in an interview that she’d entered competitions for years and never won anything before. Sore loser. Tristan hated sore losers. She was fat, tasteless, and a sore loser. Tristan hated her guts.

Listen to the story being read HERE!

669. Ella was curvaceous

© Bruce Goodman 10 August 2015

Ella was curvaceous.
Well, not exactly curvaceous. More voluptuous.
Well, not exactly voluptuous. More full-figured.
Well, not exactly full-figured. More buxom.
Well, not exactly buxom. More bosomy.
Well, not exactly bosomy. More chubby.
Well, not exactly chubby. More plump.
Well, not exactly plump. More corpulent.
Well, not exactly corpulent. More fat.
Well, not exactly fat. More overweight.
Well, not exactly overweight. More obese.
Well, not exactly obese. Dead.

635. Howard’s way with words

© Bruce Goodman 7 July 2015

Howard had a way with words; he shot from the hip; he pulled no punches; he was brutally honest; he told it like it was.

Anyway, at work he described a client, Mary-Lee, as “fat”.

Dear me! The chairperson at the meeting pointed out the inappropriateness of such a word.

“We don’t use the word fat to describe a person,” said the chairperson.

“Let’s just say then,” said Howard, “that she flattened a lot of grass in her youth.”