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The Fattest Guy in The Room10 REASONS WHY BEING FAT SUCKS! AND 3 REASONS WHY IT'S NOT SO BAD
By Big Mike Sangiamo
AuthorHouseCopyright © 2011 Big Mike Sangiamo
All right reserved.
Chapter OneNUMBER TEN: Looks matter; they always have; don't believe the lies
Don't get nuts; there are always exceptions to the rule, but they usually involve money. Either the fat guy has lots or he's using what little money he has to pay the prostitute. Now, I've had my shots at decent-looking girls, but the dry spell was very dry until I turned twenty-six or so. You may get lucky with an older chick who's looking for more than looks, but once I hit twenty five and the women were scarce, I came to a tough realization: all those fantasies I had looking at Playboy Magazine in the back of the deli in Florida with my brother were going to stay fantasies. At twenty-five I knew—I knew—there was a basic part of life that I just wasn't going to experience.
That was hard to accept, but I knew that even if I lost weight and went to bars at age twenty-seven or twenty-eight, it still wouldn't be good. You don't want to be the creepy, old dude trying to bag the twenty-two—or twenty-three-year-old chicks. So I just ate some more and felt better for the moment.
Another cruel part of the dating life of a fat man is the phenomenon of the 80 Percent Boyfriend. Now, there have been limited accounts of this happening to skinny people too, but usually the skinny people involved were ugly or had some kind of facial disfiguration. You may not be aware of this, but it is in the same descriptive category as "friends with benefits". (I'm sure we all know what that is—so, the 80 percent boyfriend is the exact opposite. This means that you get to be 80 percent her man. You get the problems, the headaches, the complaining, the whining, the shopping trips, the movie dates, and the occasional late-night cuddling session (as she cries and you listen to the greatest hits of nineties rock band Live.). That's right, you get 80 percent of everything there is in a relationship, except the 20 percent you actually want.
To date, I have been the 80 percent boyfriend of six different girls. You would think I'd have learned my lesson after the first one, but that's not how it works. Why does this phenomenon exist? one word: "hope." Ya see, I hoped that those girls would see that I was really the man they wanted, and it made sense to me because I was there, as a shoulder to cry on. I hoped that those girls would see that I was really the man they should be with, and it made sense because I was there, giving them advice and listening to their problems. But, in reality, I kinda knew deep down inside that they did know. They just couldn't manifest the feelings and see past the blubber. Some may say that's being shallow, but listen, the sooner you realize the way the real world works, the better you'll be. I used to take comfort in this idea: "Maybe she wishes she could like me, maybe she goes home and wishes she could have feelings for me and feels bad because she doesn't."
But all that is nonsense. In the end, who gives a shit? Chemistry and attraction mean a lot in this world, and rightfully so.
I don't want sympathy, and I've got news for you, most of the other fat people don't want it either. I heard stories of looks not mattering in the Midwest or in small towns. But nothing was ever confirmed. I planned an expedition to these parts of the country, but I could never quite get the food budget to make sense! Later in life, however, I did stumble upon some ugly fat guys with beautiful wives; they were always very religious families. I found this fascinating. The need for more research is clearly indicated.
After thirty, my luck has changed, even though I still break the scale, but it's just not the same as it was in my early twenties. Don't get me wrong; I'm elated to not be a thirty-one-year-old virgin, and I'll tell you, some of these girls you can get being a fat thirty-one-year-old definitely know how to work the equipment, if ya know what I mean—but still, any man with a cock worth a screw will tell you there's nothing like twenty—to twenty-four-year-old girls. I'll never know; so lose weight before you're twenty three and write me a letter telling me what I missed.
NUMBER NINE: Flexibility decreases with age
You know what this means? Everything becomes increasingly more difficult as a fat person. Here's some shit you might never have thought about. Ever drop something on the floor when you're driving? If you're skinny, it's not a huge problem; if you're like me, might as well kiss that shit goodbye until you get home! I remember my dad once dropped the toll money at the tollbooth (this was before EZ Pass) and created the most embarrassing shit ever. He had to hold up the whole line and get out of the car to get the money. What made it worse was that the door couldn't open wide enough at the booth, so he had to get the cars behind us to move back so he could move back to give himself enough room. Jeez, that happened over twenty-five years ago, and I still get a feeling in my stomach like If that ever happened to me, I'd want my family to drive away and leave me there to walk home.
Okay—ever get into a car and barely be able to buckle the seat belt? Not because it doesn't fit, but mostly because you can't twist your fat neck into an angle so you can see the slot? And then the skinny asshole who's driving pulls away while you're still trying to buckle. Then the motion sickness hits and you start to sweat, but you know any second the alarm chime is about to start ringing, but you just can't get it!
What the fuck? Why do they make these things so hard to buckle? Why is it buried in the seat? Is this even the right belt? Why did this skinny asshole start driving before I was ready!
So you stop for a second, just to calm yourself, but you hide the belt with your left hand to make it appear to the driver and anyone else in the car that the belt is buckled.okay. Deep breaths.
Now you start your silent pep talk: I can do this; it's just a seat belt. It's not because I'm fat; it's just dark. I can do it.
But then the bell starts ringing, and then you get asked, "What's the matter, you can't get the seat belt on?"
If you're real unlucky, someone will try to help you get it buckled, and at that point your trip is ruined, your day is ruined, and the whole operation is completely fucked!
Like I said, flexibility decreases with age, so maintaining the midsection of your body becomes a big chore. This is some shit that skinny people may even have to contend with later in life, but not until their seventies or eighties. When I was seventeen, I never gave a thought to this type of stuff, but if you laugh while you read this next part and you're under twenty years old, just wait, the fun is coming for you down the line, brother. Get this—how would you like to select movie theaters and restaurants based on the size of the restrooms they have? Well, I have to. Why? Because as age and weight increase and flexibility decreases, wiping your ass becomes nearly impossible!
No joke. I remember the days of being taught how to wipe my ass by my mother—my poor mother. Do you recall the lessons? "Sweeping the dirt back into the kitchen." About age twenty-seven, I realized the old tactics just weren't working anymore. I'm a clever guy, so I've developed some methods to make it work, but I'll tell you, at my highest weight, which was 379, it was getting close to being a serious problem. I even looked into some tools of assistance, but once I saw the tool they provide (some medieval-double jointed stick that looks like a back scratcher for a polar bear) I knew I had to get back into the weight range where wiping my ass was still possible without the help of Craftsman tools.
But that's not all; I can honestly say I don't recall if this was an issue I dealt with in my early twenties, but then again, in terms of sex, I did come late to the party. In my mid-twenties, I was informed by a girlfriend at the time (yeah, she was a hefty dame) that it is the man's responsibility to keep the area around the Love Gun well groomed. This was some crazy shit I had never even heard of. Seriously? I had seen some hairless examples on those dirty movies you shouldn't watch, and to be quite honest, I was never a fan, but then again, everyone has a preference. So this particular young lady requested that I perform some routine landscaping in the area, and I'm a very thoughtful person, so of course I had no issue with meeting her request. Until I tried it!
If you don't know, you should—shaving your balls is a virtual impossibility when you're fat. First thing is, all of the sensitive equipment that will need proper attention is, for all intents and purposes, out of view. Everything lies beneath the curvature of the earth that is your stomach. I tried to do it by feel, but that resulted in a nicked ball sack and a Band-Aid that would never stay on. I knew I couldn't accomplish the mission blind, so after with conferring with some friends, I employed the use of a mirror. I was told this would give me the insight into the lower hemisphere that I would need, but with all of the complex angles involved, one mirror just wouldn't do the trick. So, I set up a system of mirrors that would rival any circus funhouse. Regardless, the process is very difficult, even with the help of mirrors. And between you and me, I think it would be easier to bend a spoon with my mind than shave my balls before a date.
NUMBER EIGHT: Above-average life in public seats, booths, buses, and planes
This issue has haunted me since my high-school days. Ever wonder why some fat people are the first person in class on the first day of school? It's not because they are thirsty for knowledge. I can recall the first time: Global history 2 in sophomore year. I showed up late to class the first day, and it happened. The only remaining desk was too small. Well, in fact, I was just too big. I did my best to wedge myself in the desk, but the operation was pretty loud. Those old desks creaked and cracked at the slightest movement. I can only imagine what it looked like to my classmates watching my struggle. Picture, if you will, an elephant trying to slip quietly behind the wheel of a 1973 Pinto and all the gurgling sounds and heavy breathing that go with it. Eventually, I had to fess up that I just didn't fit, and thus began my wonderful second year in high school. But it didn't stop there.
At age twenty-one, I would never sit down in a bus, because I knew I took up two seats. At age twenty-four, I needed to ask for my first seat-belt extension on a plane, and that was the second level of embarrassment. I haven't been able to lower my tray table on a plane since I was sixteen years old. At twenty-six, I started alerting my friends to my preference of sitting at tables in restaurants over booths. one time, I went on a first date at a restaurant with small booths and no other options. I'm a trooper, so I used my patented "SWING" maneuver to jam myself into the seat. The "SWING" maneuver is where I try to build up as much momentum as possible and try to make it to the middle of the seat in one swift movement.
This usually works, but then the pain is unbearable. The table jabs into your stomach just below the sternum. It just so happens that this is the perfect spot on the body to cut off maximum blood to your legs and maximum oxygen to your brain. As I sat there, trying to hear her over my heartbeat pulsing through my ears, I only had one question: why the fuck do they bolt these tables to the ground? Even if the table slid a mere three inches toward her side, I'd be fine. What?—are they afraid someone is gonna pick up the table and run out the door with it? I just don't understand it.
Another nice little milestone was reached on a trip to Fenway Park when I was thirty. A buddy of mine got front-row seats on the home dugout. One problem, these are the original seats from 1914. I would have had a hard time sitting in this seat when I was fifteen! Not only was sharp metal the choice for the armrests, but they also gave you about six inches from the seat bottom to the wall. You know what that meant? I spent nine innings shifting in my seat like I was sitting on a bed of coals, trying to look comfortable in this torture rack. The game was good, and I had a dog and a beer of course, but I had the indentation of Fenway Park's seat on my ass and fat rolls for two days after.
Have you ever sat down and broken a chair? or a couch? or a bed? I have. It's not fun. I once broke a scale at my friend's house. The more public the venue, the better. Luckily, the furniture I've broken has been my own, but I have seen the classic fat-man chair-break at the Sizzler buffet, and let me tell you, that guy's image is burned into mind. I remember playing Santa one Christmas for a friend's family. I do this professionally, so I have a pretty entertaining shtick. The only thing I request for Santa is a good chair. My friend's family came through in fine fashion and provided a beach chair for me to sit on. I don't sit on beach chairs, not even at the beach. I knew it was gonna be rough.
But before Santa even tried to sit down, my friend's father remarked, in a loud, crusty, old-man voice: "He's gonna break the chair!"
Now that my friend's little brothers have grown up, they know I was Santa's helper that year. None of them remember their presents, but they all remember that Santa almost broke the chair. Good ol' holiday memories.
I remember recounting one of my stories about plane travel to a coworker once, and he said that if you don't fit in the seat you should have to buy two seats. You know what I say to that?, Fuck you!
I have a slightly different take on this theory. The last few times I've boarded a plane, I took a look at the eyes of the other passengers as I barley squeezed my way down the aisle. Do you know what I saw in their eyes? Fear! Intense, primal fear! Do you know why? Because each one of them knew there was a chance that I would be sitting in their row. People hold their breath and let out a sigh of relief as I pass by. You do it—you know you do, but that's okay, because I do it too; in fact. I get some weird thrill out of watching the people come down the aisle. Every time the seat they take is not next to me, I feel a sense of accomplishment! I know it sounds funny, but I really hate sitting next to people. But this is a feeling I believe most of us share. But go past that feeling. The very fact that no passengers want to sit next to the fat guy means that they know it's a possibility when the purchase their ticket. So you have the same chance I have to dictate your destiny. If you don't want to sit next to someone, you should buy two tickets.
All right, all right, all right—I know what you're thinking: It's the fat person's fault, so he should have to buy two tickets? But that's not true. What is the basis of the argument? It's comfort. I will admit that if a person cannot physically fit in the seat, then we have a problem. But if you're just looking at a small amount if discomfort, fuck you!
What's next? Smelly people? hairy people? People who snore? What about babies? No ticket purchasers are stopping anyone from buying the seat next to them if they are that concerned about who they sit with on the plane. I've got news for you: if I had the money, I'd buy the whole fucking row of seats. The ones behind me too. Skinny, fat, or otherwise, I don't want to sit next to anyone, for any reason. But that's not how it works, so I buy my ticket, I check my bag, and I fly. Maybe, just maybe, they should add some seats in the plane that are a little wider—you know, a little bigger for comfort. The airline could even charge a bit more for these luxurious seats, and all you skinny mother-scratchers who are so concerned with who you sit next to can go sit there. Oh, wait—they have that. It's called first class. So get out your checkbook or sit on a tack and spin for all I care. Forcing someone to buy two seats is by its very nature discrimination. So fuck you! But beware, these companies are run by skinny people who think they know what fat people want and fat people who tell the skinny people what they think they want to hear, so eventually it may get to the point of making fat people feel even worse. If you want to continue flying in the cabin and not below with the luggage, eat a fucking carrot and hold the mayo.
Excerpted from The Fattest Guy in The Room by Big Mike Sangiamo Copyright © 2011 by Big Mike Sangiamo. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
NUMBER TEN: Looks matter; they always have; don't believe the lies....................1
NUMBER NINE: Flexibility decreases with age....................5
NUMBER EIGHT: Above-average life in public seats, booths, buses, and planes....................11
NUMBER SEVEN: Health scares, I think....................17
NUMBER SIX: The people in your corner....................21
NUMBER FIVE: The search for clothing....................25
NUMBER FOUR: Ordering food....................29
NUMBER THREE: Sangiamo's Theory of Comparative Size....................35
NUMBER TWO: Walking....................37
NUMBER ONE: The Exclusions....................45
THANK YOU / FRIES AT THE BOTTOM OF THE BAG....................73
ABOUT THE AUTHOR....................87
ABOUT THE BOOK....................89