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A clue to the sorts of “””men””” who willingly date human tubas is in the photo attached to this fatso’s confessional about getting befuddled stares from people when she’s out in public with her thin boyfriend.
Hmm, where have we all seen that neotenous face?
The article is too unintentionally hilarious not to pull illuminative self-contradicting quotes from it.
I’m overweight and my boyfriend’s not. Big freaking deal.
We’ve been dating for 18 months, and wherever we go—whether we’re walking hand in hand through the mall, airport or down the street in his hometown (Glasgow, Scotland) or mine (San Jose, California)—we get confused looks that say, He can do better than her!
People are uncomfortable with monstrous aberrations.
When people say things out loud, their comments range from cruel (“Is he blind?” or “He’s only with you to get a green card”)
A reasonable suspicion.
to quips such as, “It’s great he can see past your looks”
or “He’s so nice for being with you.”
I usually respond, “He’s not doing me a favor—he’s my boyfriend!”
When you’re a sexual market loser, the whole world is doing you a favor by tolerating your presence instead of tossing you out on your fat keister to the icy wastelands.
Now and then, even people close to me made unkind remarks. Once, when I confided to a friend, “I can’t believe he likes me!” he answered, “Yeah, I know!”
The more repulsive you are, the harder it is for people to conceal their true feelings in your company.
I have a YouTube channel, Glowpinkstah, with more than 250,000 subscribers, and, as a comic,
She swallowed the belly laughs.
I review beauty products,
At least she understands that female beauty matters. Now all she needs to do is realize that lipstick on a pig just makes the pig look goofy.
answer fan mail,
“I love how you own your fat body! Can you give me tips on how to hide my wiping implements so guests won’t see them when they use the bathroom?”
share my edgy brand of humor
More like rounded brand of humor, amirite?
and details about my life, so they know all about Ali and me.
Does Ali sleep in the piano case with you?
While most are supportive, there are a fair number of bullies:
“She has a boyfriend? What is wrong with the world?”
“These two had sex?! Oh god, why?”
Lack of options. Mental illness.
Some have gone so far as to ask how we have sex.
Pulleys, a garage jack, industrial lubricant, and the jaws of life.
I feel like saying, “If you have to ask, clearly you missed an important class back in the fifth grade.”
Whatever that class was, it wasn’t physics!
I just really liked food, and I didn’t think about consequences.
Not thinking about consequences? Sounds like a feminist fantasy world.
Also, I didn’t care that much about the way I looked
We can see.
—but other people did.
They can see.
In middle school, one guy imitated the way my thighs rubbed together when I walked.
I think I was friends with that guy.
While it upset me, I realized that it was more his problem than mine.
That’s just something the targets of cruelty say.
While I was talking about my dreams, he volunteered to decode them. “I study psychology,” he explained.
What a waste of game.
So I gave him my Instant Messenger screen name.
Two-and-a-half years later, the miles and time zones between us hardly mattered. We were spending so many hours a week talking online.
A two and a half year talking relationship. For once, a
closeted gay man beta dweeb didn’t mind years of blue balls.
I thought Ali was cute too, but I figured someone like him wouldn’t have feelings for me.
Gay men are like that.
I knew he was into big girls—his exes were chubby.
Ah, the elusive fatty fucker. Good news for fat chicks: a few men appear to suffer from brain defects that make them aroused by the sight of undulating blubber. Bad news for fat chicks: For every one of these invaluable fatty fuckers, there are one hundred of you trampling over yourselves trying to get at him.
Some think it’s weird, but it’s like having a thing for blondes: It’s just a preference.
“That’s just, like, your opinion, man.”
Not long after, Ali—who I was now seeing exclusively—told me he loved me. We had yet to meet in person.
She had Skype sex with a turkey drumstick, while he masturbated to photoshopped nudes of Justin Bieber. No one was the wiser.
I turned around and saw him walking toward me with a huge smile on his face. He gave me a hug and kissed me on the lips. I thought to myself, He’s my boyfriend, and he’s here!
“And his kisses feel like I’m kissing my brother!”
Another ex told me, with sincerity: “Maybe if you lost weight, my parents would accept you, and we could be together again.”
Most fatty fuckers are actually loser men who piss themselves in the company of attractive women who would be elated if their fatso girlfriends slimmed down. Of course, the elation wouldn’t last long, as the newly thin girlfriends would quickly dump their loser boyfriends and cash in their sexy figures for love with better men.
I have days when I say, “Why do you like me?” He says, “Because you’re beautiful and for the person you are.”
Those are sweet words of acceptance. Let’s see if he means them.
And he’s been good for my health. I was at my heaviest when we met, and I’ve lost 40 pounds since. My goal is to lose 80 pounds total, and he’s very supportive.
Before Ali, I never showed any skin whatsoever, but he makes me feel confident going out in a cute little dress
Aka house gown.
that doesn’t cover me head-to-toe.
More’s the pity.
I can wear a sleeveless dress, shorts
Aka canvas tent.
—things that typically people don’t want to see me wearing—and not care.
Yes, you sound like you don’t care at all.
So, with Ali’s support, I started The Beauty Adjustment, a collaborative video project in which my subscribers help me spread the word that there is no one “normal” way to look or love. Beauty and relationships come in all shapes and sides: brown, yellow, short, tall, thin, fat—and one partner doesn’t have to mirror the other.
Great, more fat acceptance. Just what America needs. An excuse to get galactically fat.
Despite her sweet-sounding entreaties for acceptaaaaaaance, let there be no mistaking her message for what it is: Vile, ugly lies. The more women who heed her comfort food words, the fewer sexy babes there will be in the world, and the unhappier everyone gets. It affects me personally when women think they can bloat up without consequence. And since I am, as a human male, representative of the way most men think, the resentment at having our shared environment stripped of its most beautiful creations is a universal feeling.
At Le Chateau, there will be no acceptance of human garbage. There will be no excuses. There will be only the white hot sting of shame, of mockery, of ostracism. And, in the end, when the losers have gone through the crucible of hell — some burning in everlasting torment, others finding cool relief in self-improvement — will the world be a more beautiful place, and hence, a more truthful place.
The good-looking beta male who takes up with the gross fat chick is a riddle to most people, but that’s because most people have a narrow vision of what constitutes the desirable man. They retreat to a simple and readily-identifiable criterion of worth, e.g., looks, not understanding that such a criterion, while useful as a measurement of women’s sexual worth, is woefully inadequate as a metric for capturing a man’s sexual worth. The good-looking beta male dating the fat chick is not betrayed by his looks; he’s betrayed by his attitude. His psychology. His lack of confidence. His cowardice. His closeted homosexuality.
Whatever those traits are that women love in men are missing in the man who fucks a flesh pierogie when he could be fucking a slender girl. He’s a loser just as much as the ugly fat man who will lay with land whales out of expedience; the differences in each man’s looks are subsumed by their similarities in psychology. It’s the psychology of the feeble, the insecure, the deranged, and the undiscriminating.