Let me level with you. I’m fat. Not heavyset, but F-A-T, fat. I’m not saying this because I’m proud. It takes a lot of courage to admit it, but I have a problem. Strangers gape in amazement. Children taunt me behind my back. People have trouble looking at me when I eat, and for good reason: I’m huge. But gosh, I don’t like being this way. I hate it as much as you do—maybe more. What I want to know is, how come no one is doing anything about it?
For the past 10 years, everyone has stood idly by and watched my waistline balloon. My friends didn’t say anything as I sat and ate one chili-cheese dog after another. Even my own family hasn’t lifted a finger to solve my weight problem. My mom’s idea of “helping” is cooking a delicious dinner with all the trimmings. She knows as well as I do that, if she cooks a scrumptious meal, I am going to eat at least five servings and half a loaf of buttered bread, but that doesn’t stop her.
According to government statistics, nearly two-thirds of Americans are overweight. If those figures are accurate—and I believe they are—then I really think the government should do something about this terrible affliction. I get winded walking to the corner, and I eat 3,000 calories before getting out of bed in the morning. I have cellulite on my forearms. Can’t someone in Washington help me? Please? I am admitting that I need help. Now, someone—anyone—please help me.
I wish someone in the scientific community would look out for the obese little guy. They could provide liposuction and stomach stapling so a person like me would no longer be a danger to himself. Or, better, they could design a “magic bullet” to cure my corpulence. I mean, it seems like there should at least be a medicine that will make me stop stuffing my face when I’m full five times over. No kidding: If someone had an experimental new pill that would stop me from stuffing my face with food once I’m full five times over, I’d be the first in line to take it. Well, I mean, I would allow doctors to come to my home and administer the drug while I was comfortably splayed out on my sofa in my robe. That’s how serious I am about having someone do something about my weight problem.
It is a problem. I know that. That’s why I’m pleading for help. Obesity is ruining my life, if you want to know. I mean, I could die. I could really die, and it scares the hell out of me. I could drop like that if someone doesn’t make me lose some weight.
I’ll tell you what it is: My obesity is a direct result of the sheer volume of high-calorie, low-nutrition foodstuffs that are constantly available for my consumption. I go to the grocery store and load my cart with gallon upon gallon of pure-cream ice cream, bags and bags of so-called “healthy” chips, and enough cereal, frozen dinners, and candy bars to nourish an ox. No one even bats an eye. The cashiers blithely ring me up. The bag boys don’t even complain that it takes them seven trips to get all of my food into the car. Everyone just acts like it’s not their problem.
In a way, they’re right. It isn’t their fault. You see, I never could’ve packed on so many excess pounds without the thousands of farmers, truckers, grocers, and restaurateurs that supplied the steady stream of food I shoveled into my mouth for days and weeks and years without pause. I wish someone would do something to change that. Because, listen, I know myself, and I know that if restaurants keep frying food, I’ll never convince myself to stop shoving brown, crispy food down my throat. It’s time for some action. Stop me! Or stop them! I don’t know! Just do something!
I’ve heard there are public-service announcements that address the obesity problem, but I don’t really see how a commercial is going to make me stop eating. You see, odds are I’m in the kitchen making a sandwich during commercials. Someone should mail me a brochure about the risks of overeating. Better yet, send me a videotape. Reading on a full stomach makes me drowsy. Besides, I’m so exhausted most of the time, I fall asleep the second I hit the couch.
No one should have to live like I do. I shouldn’t have to suffer the pain of eating a pail of fried chicken and a tub of mashed potatoes with gravy and still be hungry enough to polish off an entire apple pie. Where is your sense of human compassion? Please, someone, make me thin again. For God’s sake, don’t just stand there doing nothing.
