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Fat chicks are getting uppity lately. You’ve got your NAAFA (National Association for the Advancement of Fat Assery). Your fatkinis. Your slut pride parades aka fat slut pride parades. Your proud fatties wearing clothes made for thin girls. And pretty much an entire media industrial complex allied, in word if not in deed, with the fat pride/acceptance/delusion movement.

I, for one, welcome our new fat flaunting underlords. Putting themselves out there in showy, ritualistic displays of unmerited pride, their bulbous folds cresting like wind-whipped seas and their triple chins held aloft like war banners, makes for a tempting array of overinflated egos. Proud and loud fat chicks are the morbidly obese equivalent of the Iraqi soldiers fleeing from Kuwait: plump targets for my GPS-guided jeering.

As long as I’m here to protect the earth from the assault against beauty by the horde army of gaping pieholes, the fattie who dares to stand tall and jiggle her blubber indignantly will face the point blank precision of my cruelest ridicule. Sweep the cankle.

Exhibit A: This monster formerly known as a human being, who happily informs the world of her “sexercise” program for shedding imaginary fractions of a pound off her 600 pound frame.

Why is this Jabba given media airtime? Why does it feel comfortable talking about its disgusting sex life with the general public? In a saner time, beasts like it had a sense of humility, and self-preservation, even an understanding that they were frightening to children and had a duty to keep out of the public eye. They sequestered themselves in steel reinforced bedrooms, blinds drawn, until they either died alone or dieted down to a reasonably presentable weight. Now we get this:

“I sweat off loads of calories,” 600-pound Pauline Potter revealed in an interview with UK magazine Closer this month. “I call it ‘sexercise.’”

Potter, 47, became the Guiness World Record holder for heaviest woman last year when she weighed in at 700 pounds, but she’s managed to lose nearly 100 pounds in the last year by rekindling her romance with her ex-husband Alex.

Fucking ugh. You read this stuff and try as you might, your brain can’t help meandering to visualizing what shoggoth sex must look like. Is the fupa lifted and propped with a cane before penetration? Does the stank from cheesy crevices cause temporary blindness and retching? Does a hobbit make its home in her vagina? Just HOW BIG must this guy’s dick be to plow through feet of blubber to reach the wet spot? Speaking of him, how does he get it up? At sufficient levels of grossness, a man’s penis will actually retract into a protective shell behind the pubic bone. A male porn star jacked on viagra and yohimbe and fluffed by a team of sugar-lipped supermodels would shrivel to the size of a speck at the first sight of this gelatinous cube.

“I hadn’t had sex in three years, but we did it six times!” she told the magazine, adding they now make love between two and seven times per day. “He took charge as I couldn’t move much, but he was so attentive.”

He took charge. “Honey, be a dear and roll to your right so I can dislodge this pot roast from your thighs.”

“My bed is strengthened and, although I can’t buy sexy lingerie, I drape a nice sheet over me.”


Though she already weighed 400 pounds by the time she gave birth to her son, Potter said she binge ate when she and her husband divorced and ended up packing on the pounds.

Her son:

But Alex still thought her size was sexy – despite the occasional logistical issue.

“It’s hard to position her and find her pleasure spots as she has a lot of fat in the pelvic area,” he told the magazine. “But it turns me on knowing she’s satisfied. Although once, when she got on top, I couldn’t breathe.”


What kind of “man” would find this sexy?

A middle-aged lesbian!

Exhibit B: A blog by two fat chicks who videotape themselves eating mass quantities of food to ostensibly piss off healthy thin people.

You’d be mad at the world too, if everyone vomited when they saw you naked.

Exhibit C: Fat chick wails about, get this, “thin privilege”. The yuks just keep on coming.

Thin privilege is turning down the air conditioning without ever thinking of the fatter people in the room who aren’t nearly as cold as you are.

Thin privilege is assuming yours is the default body: your comforts and discomforts are default; your width and weight are the defaults.

Dear fattie,

There’s a reason why thin, healthy people are privileged over disgusting fat fucks like yourself.

Yours in rendering soap from your lard,

Tyler Durden

ps would you like a wafer thin mint to go with your bison on a stick?

Fatties, like their loser feminist cousins, are stuck in a matrix of pure, distilled self-delusion. They know how people look at them with derision and disgust. They know how men ignore them and thin women pity them. They know how unhealthy they are and how gross they look, even to other fatties. But instead of doing what it takes to slim down and become normal, they choose to rail against normalcy, to elevate the ugly and denigrate the beautiful, and to try to retrofit reality and human nature to accommodate their weakness and repulsiveness.

You see, fatties, your pain is self-inflicted. Your sloth and gluttony, vices which are within your control to tame, are your ruin. You have no one else to blame for your miserable existences than yourselves. Concocting feelgood fantasies of overbearing patriarchies and thin privilege isn’t gonna save you from your real enemy — your own disfigured souls.

And, FYI, plastering your porcine carcasses with tattoos, piercings, and Sharpie ink isn’t going to distract people from your ugliness, an ugliness that is objective and real because it violates ancient evolutionary preferences for healthy, slender, fertile women. Fat is the physical embodiment of a flawed character, and your twisted, self-annihilating mentality is on display to be gawked at by the whole world. A gawking which I will assist with incalculable sadism, until you and your false pride skulk ignominiously back to the hovel from whence you erupted.

Think I’m exaggerating? Or that I’m a demon who doesn’t speak for the majority of humanity? Think again. Those polite commuters you see avoiding your gaze very day on the train are thinking this:

Strangers on a bus: Study reveals lengths commuters go to avoid each other

Kim found that race, class, gender and other background characteristics were not key concerns for commuters when they discovered someone had to sit next them. They all just wanted to avoid the ‘crazy person.’

“One rider told me the objective is just ‘getting through the ride’, and that I should avoid fat people who may sweat more and so may be more likely to smell,” said Kim. “Motivating this nonsocial behavior is the fact that one’s own comfort level is the rider’s key concern, rather than the backgrounds of fellow passengers.”

No one cares about your feelings, fatties. They just want to get away, far away, from your undulating rolls of blubber and your smell. Your campaigns and blogs and tumblrs and pride walks will never…


no, not even a tiny little bit…

alter this universal fact of human nature.

The only choice you have to win acceptance, real acceptance, is to put down the pride and push away from the table. That means living not by lies. But if lies are your stock in trade and your cultural weapon leading others down your benighted path of ugliness, then don’t be surprised when a stone cold bastard calls you out on them. The battlefield is total war and the frontline is everywhere. Whose side will you be on? Truth and beauty? Or lies and ugliness?

It’s funny, but I sometimes get neophytes ambling in this happy hunting ground wondering why I’m so relentlessly cruel to the losers in our midst. They never see the precipitating events. My sadism is not haphazard. The fattie who makes real efforts to lose weight, who doesn’t make excuses for her condition, and who doesn’t advocate for acceptance of her less than ideal shape, gets no shit from me. I gladly give words of encouragement to those who are making real efforts to slim down and better themselves.

It’s the liars and the deliberately delusional that I hate with a passion. The lords of lies. The traffickers of untruths. The propagandizers of poison. The ones who would take the beauty and truth that makes life worth living, and shit on it out of spite. If an equalist or a feminist or a fattie wants to come here and engage this proprietorship in good faith, with an open mind, she will earn my two minutes of mercy and polite indulgence. But if she comes in here, screeching and screaming and slandering in her first comment, like so many have done before, because she can’t believe what she is reading it so violates the PC norm she’s used to regurgitating, she should not be surprised when I unleash the wrath of a thousand hellhounds to tear at the tatters of her misshapen soul.

At the very least, she is made example of for the others. Plus, it amuses me.

Fat pride advocates would be wise to reflect on the sympathies that normal people give them when they know their place. The fattie who doesn’t flaunt her monstrousness and demand approval from her betters earns a measure of tolerance. People don’t hound fatties who keep their mouths shut and their bodies tastefully covered until dieting and exercise make them presentable again for public viewing. Humility, a virtue understood well by a much better people than our current crop of loser pride degenerates, is a lost art in the modern West. It’s high time it was rediscovered, and the waddles of the ululating tormented humbled as befits their decrepit station. A dose of humility might even motivate these sick freaks to improve their lives and rejoin the community of happy people.



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