Mysteries of the Chinese Buffet, Part II

I commonly go to Chinese buffets with family for social bonding, or by myself to initiate a state of calm, meditative reflection. The Chinese buffet is so much more than a common eatery, it is a mystical, magical Mecca where mystical, magical and sometimes frightening things can happen. There exists in these havens an intangible unifying force that brings people of all shapes, sizes, ages, and creeds together in masticating ecstasy. To that end it is understandable that this setting (remember, called "buffatmosphere") might reinforce and manipulate the already powerful hallucinatory effects of the wonder-drug called MSG. To put it bluntly, already crazy people are driven to even crazier, unthinkable things.

In other words, I was hit on at a Chinese buffet.

I had made a pilgrimage with my loving yet old grandparents to Great China Super Buffet for a memorable lunch-time experience. After all there are very few other establishments where small Asian people willingly offer up neverending tins of delicious stir-fried meats to sate my greatness. The meal passed pleasantly and as usual, I devoured my tithings with remarkable speed. Having found my Chi and achieved a Zen-like center, I sat silently as my grandparents slowly crawled towards the finish line.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a large shadow hovering towards our booth. Looking up revealed an exponentially large, pale-skinned woman in her 50's with thinning hair and glasses, wearing tight un-fitting clothes and sporting an odd tatoo on her right arm. A Sherman tank by definition, oiled and poised, ready to strike when given the proper launch codes.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your lunch here, but I just HAD to come over and tell you. My daughter thinks you are absolutely adorable."

Needless to say I was completely taken aback by this direct hit to my port side bow. Not by their attraction to my glorious self, but by the place and timing of their advance. I struggled to ascertain exactly what the basis of this attraction was. Obviously these two women had just witnessed me in true form, shoveling plates of food towards my face with unfettered, primal rage. This behavior would be attractive only to the natural inhabitants of a Chinese buffet, who live, feed, and breed influenced heavily by the intoxicating chemicals found therein.

All I could manage was a moderate amount of damage control through a hesitant smile. I peeked around the event horizon to get a view, but by this point the daughter in question had strategically maneuvered herself out of sight and into a position of embarrassment in the lobby. Understandable of course, for who comes to a Chinese buffet looking for love, much less a mate? Who wants to tell other couples for the rest of their life that they met their soul mate while wallowing in buffet cart #2 when no more clean plates were to be had?

After an awkward pause, she continued on. "Anyway, she's 26 and single if you're looking."

This woman was twice my size, and her physical presentation was doing anything but building up hope that her progenal offspring had somehow fallen miles from the tree. While mass is certainly a component of greatness, it is merely a contributing factor rather than a direct equation. Yielding to my silence she trodded off to the parking lot in defeat, leaving me to wonder if I had somehow just ascended to a higher plane of existence or experienced an alternate dimension of hell. My suspicions were confirmed as I caught a glimpse through the restaurant window of the daughter's backside. Same make and model of her mother, just a newer year.

At that moment I realized that I was incorrect in my initial assessment of this armored wartime machinery. At first glance the symbolic tatoo on this woman's arm appeared to be the familiar stars and bars of American-made industry, but I'd know those tank treads anywhere. What I thought to be a Sherman tank was actually Hitler's Third S.S. Panzer division. How the two of them managed to escape Europe 60 years ago and continue the fight by time-travelling to MY Chinese buffet I have no idea, but nevertheless they were here.

My grandparents got a real kick out of this story, and I was left with the only option of taking numerous futile showers to wash this grimy, unclean, tainted buffet experience off of myself. I guess the moral of the story here is the next time you feel the sudden urge to procreate at a Chinese buffet, keep your mouth shut and realize it's the massive cocktail of MSG, peanut oil, and soy sauce you just ingested clouding your better judgement.

The Ridiculousness of Old People

We all know about the usual perils of old people. An 88 year old woman, wearing wrap-around Walgreen's sunglasses (even though she's half-blind already from glaucoma) and sitting on no less than TWO phone books, driving an '88 Buick going 50 MPH in the carpool lane on the freeway yapping her head off while her shell of a husband sits as far to the right of her as possible, staring out the window praying for his soul to escape. At least they have the sense to make sure their turn signal isn't on like those pesky Asian drivers. Of course, everyone ELSE on the road is a terrible driver to them, while they remain oblivious to the ten car pile up they just caused in their wake. Everybody else is merging into their lane. Everybody else runs red lights (and by red lights I mean they are actually yellow). Anyone who blows by their car going the normal 5-10 over the speed limit is met with a gasp of shock and awe, followed by spiteful wishes for cops to emerge out of nowhere. The same cops that they are so afraid of yet refuse to admit aren't there.

Old people even manage to clog up traffic without even driving with their massively sprawling, gated, snowbird retirement communities. No through traffic is allowed simply so they can play golf with their sense of high and mighty entitlement. "Hey look! There's a new Dillard's on the other side of that Leisure World. I'll load up the Oregon Trail wagon with 300 pounds of meat, but we may have to stop and hunt before we make it."

Every old person is ripe with the stank of steadfast cheapness (and you thought it was just mothballs and Vick's vapor rub). I can understand using coupons to save money, or shopping around to find deals, but there is a limit. I call this the "$6.99 early bird special at Golden Corral" syndrome. This is where you go to a buffet during the tail end of lunch (around 3pm), get a senior citizen's discount on the already discounted lunch price, and WAIT for the dinner menu to be put out. Then you clog the line as the steaks cook, preventing others from reaching anything at all. Investment completely eludes them. Stocks, mutual funds, all of their cash sits rotting in a savings or CD account. It's the same kind of cheapness that they view as being frugal, where they spend way more money in the process of trying to save a dime here or there. For example, here in Arizona the electricity goes on a double rate at peak temperature hours. Rather than raise the house temperature five to ten degrees by running the AC intermitently, old people will shut off the air completely to try and save money. What they don't realize is that the seven fans they turn on throughout the house eat up more electricity than the air conditioning ever would, and they still sweat just as much in the intolerable heat.

As is typical there is a fear of change. This is a never ending cycle, longing for the "good old days" while the world leaves them behind. Outdated electronics and furniture are no match for outdated ideas on how the world should be run. To be fair many of them lived through the Great Depression and World War II when times really were tough, but I'm sure their grandparents thought the world was going to hell in a handbasket too. We all have an underlying fear that we may be wrong about something, be it love, religion, our way of life. Getting old means death comes inevitably closer and unfortunately we tend to deal with it in angry, self-righteous fashion.

Nothing will nauseate you more than the disgusting eating habits of senior citizens. I never knew Palmed Chicken was an actual recipe until I saw my Grandfather try to dismantle a chicken into pieces with his bare hands. He had a knife in his hands somehow, but apparently shredded is how they used to do it back in the good old days. There is no moderation at the buffet line. Portion control goes out the window as each plate becomes a hodge-podge trough of a casserole piled as high as can be held in their shaky hands. This happens because they forget what they've put on their plate immediately after they've put it there. You can tell if they've gotten beets because the whole plate will turn a light shade of red halfway through the feeding process. God help them if there is but one shrimp in the vicinity of their food because the entire plate will soon be smothered in cocktail sauce. Bread etiquette also seems to be an issue as rather than spreading a moderate amount, old people will cake enough butter on a roll to cover every nook and cranny with at least an inch-deep layer of fat. Even better if it's sweeter bread, because spoonfulls of honey will soon be applied directly to the mouth.

Lost your appetite yet? How about these:

Topping off your water with Mountain Dew or Diet Coke "just because it's wet" is an abuse of said beverage. Putting ice cubes in your cereal to keep the milk cold will only dilute the milk further when you spoon it directly into your reheated day old stale coffee. Pickled cucumbers is not an acceptable side dish, nor is the excess oil/vinegar an acceptable salad dressing. Tapioca pudding is a dessert best left in hospitals where people have no digestive tract. And lastly, someone needs to tell seniors that salsa is NOT a soup. We do not slurp it or any other condiment directly from the small, clear Dixie cups it comes in at the El Pollo Loco.

According to old people nuking meat is ok as long as it's sitting in its own juices, but I'm of the belief that shoe leather smothered in even the most delicious of gravy/broth is still shoe leather. Texture of food comes from internal temperature, not how much juice you've boiled out of the meat. Why must we overcook EVERYTHING? Boiling by the way is never a preferred cooking method, especially for meats or vegetables. Somehow they've forgotten the terms "caramelization, golden brown and delicious, and seasoning" from their vocabulary.

Once we hit 80 our manual dexterity can be likened to that of an astronaut in full outer space gear, i.e. a 2 year old child. A gradual dulling of all the senses ensues. Their hearing is gone, evidenced by the high pitched scream of hearing aids left on the kitchen table as Grandpa holds a phone up to his ear with the "Speakerphone" feature switched on. Even the sense of smell apparently disappears, as not only does the sound and feel of their own flatulence elude them, the ensuing aroma that permeates every corner of the house fails to register as well.

Not only do you have to repeat everything you say three to for times, you have to correct them later when they try to repeat it due to their terrible memory. This usually leads to incessant gossiping because they have no life of their own. What else is there when all you do is read the newspaper and watch the weather channel all day? Whether they have Alzheimer's or not, don't tell them anything personal that you don't want repeated to every other family member with completely inaccurate discrepancies. Everything is an event to old people because the dullness of their own lives brings little satisfaction. The worst is when old people try to correct each other's mistakes with their own mistakes. I honestly think some of them get a kick out of correcting others because it gives them some false sense of security that they are still sharp as a tack. Like printing out daily email correspondence or listening in on phone conversations for the sole purpose of correcting errors no matter how minor or mundane they might be.

Finally, do not watch sports with old people. Everything is a "travel" or a "charge" except for the team they are rooting for. They can do no wrong of course, and every questionable call must go in their favor. Players with success or longer hair are punks and undeserving of everything they have regardless of their upbringing. This however can be somewhat entertaining as sensory degradation can lead to many bouncing balls believed to be strikes, and after-buzzer shots believed to be made three pointers.

There's plenty more I could talk about like endless prescriptions and needless trips to the emergency room, but I feel a little bit better now. I promise there will be more Fatness ahead.

AHAHAHAAHAHAAA! Eat it whiny Suns fans.

Another non-Fat post here, but I just felt the need to comment on this year's NBA playoffs. I don't normally watch pro-basketball. It usually consists of egotistical superstars travelling their way to 70 points against pitiful soft, warm butter offered up as defense. But since baseball is an equally boring and non-riveting sport, and since golf is reserved for the Sunday afternoon nap, the month of May leaves no other option but to watch the NBA playoffs. Now as a disclaimer, I am a both a mild Suns fan and a mild Spurs fan. I lived in San Antonio for three years back when David Robinson and Avery Johnson were in their hey-day. I have lived in Phoenix for an equal amount of time, and I believe I can bring a rather objective opinion to the nonsense of the past couple weeks.

I understand that people want to root for their team, but I am simply amazed at the blatant bias that Suns fans have. They want every call to go their team's way. The refs are part of a massive anti-Suns conspiracy, i.e. pro-whatever team they are playing against. Every time the other team touches the ball it's an offensive foul, a 3-second count, a travel... but every time Nash jump stops/travels or palms the ball it is conveniently ignored.

So let's clear the air here:

1. Bowen and Duncan were rightly NOT suspended because there was no "altercation" after that dirty Suns player took Manu's feet out from under him. Words may have been exchanged, but there was no fight. Manu sucked it up, got back down the court and played defense. Good teams do that from time to time. Bell stormed at Horry after a rather hard foul, while Amare and Diaw went into the fray. Big difference. The Suns played their own part in escalating the game 4 altercation.

2. All this whining about suspensions is absolutely pointless. I knew the Suns would resort to complaining about how "we would have won if we had Amare and Boris." The fact is that the Suns couldn't close out game 5 after being up 16 points WITHOUT STOUDEMIRE OR DIAW. The Spurs got shafted because Horry was suspended when Baron Davis clocked a guy with an elbow and received nothing for it. I will give credit to Nash for doing exactly what he was supposed to: sell the call to the ref. Fly into the bench, put a constipated face on, and writhe around on the ground until they call the foul. Then you get up and run into the fight like nothing happened. Suns fans whine about Ginobili flopping all the time but of course when their guy does it, it's ok.

3. Tim Duncan is a true competitor, a high class guy who always speaks highly of his team/competition and rarely receives a technical foul. Robert Horry was understandably frustrated because the Suns came back to win a great game that the Spurs had flat out dominated for three quarters. I do not condone his brief lapse of judgement but he doesn't have a track record of doing this. Every game interview I've ever seen with him has left a positive impression on me. He's no dirtier than Raja Bell, a guy with a much worse track record conveniently ignored by Suns fans. In fact, if I saw Raja Bell running up to me I'd raise my arm up too. The Suns must be a dirty team too. It's ok to admit it. It's not ok to blatantly hate teams/players just because your team loses to them all the time. People go to therapy for that.

For years the Spurs have been an absolute class act, winning with style and humility dating back to when David Robinson and Avery Johnson were playing. Somehow a bunch of Suns fans are trying to tarnish that reputation just because their team can't make it past them to play for a championship. The Spurs play defense. The numbers don't lie, they are the best in the league. I guess I would be pissed off too if everyone I had played that year had just let me run by them for easy layups and all of a sudden Bruce Bowen shows up putting a hand in my face. The Spurs have become the New England Patriots of basketball. Everyone hates them because they win, win, win and love it when they lose in hopes that their inferior teams might now have a shot. Even I as a Broncos fan admit to hating the Patriots. Why? Because they beat my team every time they play! Doesn't make them dirty or unworthy of victory.

Every single "dirty" incident that Suns fans mention had absolutely no effect on the end result in each game. None. The Suns still won the Horry bump game. They were up 16 with half a quarter to go without their suspended players, and they folded. The Suns had every opportunity and plenty of time to win each other game, and despite being a very entertaining, fast paced team to watch, they failed to get the job done. They may have been the more athletic team on the court but the more experienced, more physical, and ultimately better team still won. The Suns have no one to blame but themselves, but God knows they'll still try.

Hold Up While I Fix Some Star Wars Prequels Real Quick

I know, it's not Fat related, but it's a subject near and dear to my clogg-ed heart. First I'll explain what was wrong with the Star Wars prequels, then I'll fix them in a way that just makes too much sense to have been done.

Even though Phantom Menace got something like 3 1/2 stars, Episode I should have never been made. Aside from establishing Anakin as a whiny 2nd grader with feelings, this movie does nothing to further the main plot. You know, the whole downfall of the Republic/Jedi extinction/Clone Wars thing. Rule number one in writing a story or script, is that if what you are writing doesn't further the main plot or establish a character, it gets trashed. Instead we get Gungans and a paperweight "battle hardened" Droid Army. How do droids get battle hardened anyway? Here's a nice little visual as to what main plot lines are taken care of as each movie is made. These plot lines are basic assumptions, story lines from the original trilogy that we know must be explained. Some are mentioned above, but here they are in their entirety and in order of occurence: Downfall of the Republic/Clone Wars/Vader turns to the dark Side/Jedi extinction/Rise of the Palpatine's Empire/Obi-wan vs. Vader/Luke and Leia are born/Yoda and Obi-wan exile.

Episode I:
None of the above.

Episode II:
At the very end we get the Clone wars, otherwise none of the above.

Episode III:
Oops. This is the last movie. After this 40 minute chase scene, we better get down to business. Downfall of the Republic/Clone Wars/Vader turns to the dark Side/Jedi extinction/Rise of the Palpatine's Empire/Obi-wan vs. Vader/Luke and Leia are born/Yoda and Obi-wan exile.

You can see the obvious problem here. On top of this, there are waaaay too many characters introduced for the story's own good, with weak resolution if any. They just keep coming and coming and don't go away.

Episode II should have been "Episode I". Anakin is established as a dangerous padawan in training under Obi-wan. We don't care where he's from, or that he's the only human who can pod race. The Republic is on the verge of collapse due to Separatist activities, and the Clone Army is built.

Episode III should have been split into two movies. In Episode II, the Jedi are forced into service as generals and their numbers quickly diminish. The Clone Wars are in full swing, and the Republic is crumbling. The film ends with Anakin turning to the Dark Side due to his lust for power, and knocking up some dormitory slut with twins in a drunken-Dark-Side-Force-stupor.

Episode III gives us the declaration of Palpatine as Emperor, and the all out betrayal and extinction of the Jedi. Obi-wan confronts Vader, and escapes with Yoda and Anakin's newborn offspring into exile on Dagobah/Tatooine.

Lucas seemed afraid to leave any potential loose ends hanging around. Every origin, every character, it was all wrapped up in a force-fed bow topped package. Anakin builds C-3PO. Chewbacca is some Wookie Grand-Poobah who knew Yoda. Boba Fett's dad was the proto-type for the Clone Army. When does someone come out of obscurity to do something grand? Why does it all have to be intertwined so tightly, and thus unrealisticly? Tatooine is supposed to be this backwater planet nobody's ever heard of in the Outer Rim, yet Jabba lives there, it's conveniently on the way from Naboo to Corscant, and Obi-wan decides to hide Luke there. What, Vader never thinks to go back and see his old stomping ground? There should never have been a "prophecy", because who the hell fulfilled it in the end? Was it Anakin or Luke? What does "balance to the Force" mean? There should never have been a lame retcon explanation of the Force being related to midichlorians. How does Leia remember images her real mother and Luke doesn't, when Padme died before her eyes opened 10 seconds after birth? For some reason the ability for a Jedi to reappear after death is half explained, but they never tell us how Anakin is able to do it! Leave us with some mystery so our own imaginations can run here! We even see images of Death Star plans. It's like every time some correlation or connection to the old trilogy is made we're supposed to explode in some fanboy orgy screaming "OMGZ! FORESHADOWING!" Even the dialogue is plagiarized in this manner. I have a bad feling about this. "It's genius!" Yoda just reversed a sentence! "Brilliant!"

Speaking of which. Yoda's quirky double speak was a refreshing character trait when he was first introduced in Empire. It was interestingly appropriate because it added emphasis on philosophical points while training Luke. If you watch Empire and Jedi again, you'll notice that most of the time he speaks normally like everybody else. Remember these great quotes?

“Yes, a Jedi's strength flows from the Force. But beware of the dark side. Anger, fear, aggression; the dark side of the Force are they. Easily they flow, quick to join you in a fight. If once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny, consume you it will, as it did Obi-Wan's apprentice.”

Or how about this one?

“Size matters not. Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you? Hmm? Hmm. And well you should not. For my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. You must feel the Force around you; here, between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere, yes. Even between the land and the ship.”

For some reason, every line out of his mouth in the prequels was backwards. It was as if some clever pod of writers in the background were going "Hey, Yoda's got a line here. Let's make him do that occasional backward speaking thing." That's what got us lines like "Around the survivors, a perimeter create", "Not if anything to say about it, I have”, and “Good relations with the Wookiees, I have.” Complete overkill.

There should never have been a General Grievous, as cool as he is. Count Dooku was the main bad guy, and because of Grievous, suffered from major "Stormtrooper" syndrome. For those wondering, "Stormtrooper Syndrome" refers to when Stormtroopers, who are supposed to be the most elite, well-trained sharpshooters in the galaxy, simply can't hit the broad side of the proverbial barn when it comes to firing at one of the main characters. In Episode II Dooku quickly bests Anakin, then Obi-wan, and fights Yoda to a standstill before withdrawing. Then in Episode III, Dooku bests Obi-wan, but somehow Anakin's powers have "doubled" since their last encounter. You gotta be kidding me. Like there's a way to quantify or measure a Jedi's abilities. Not to mention all Sidious needed was a bag of popcorn while coaching this middle school wrestling match to the dark side. I guess George finally realized he had too many bad guys running around and had to wrap this thing up because he accomplished ABSOLUTELY NOTHING with the first two movies. Yoda even suffered from this power creep, as he just inexplicably gives up the fight against Sidious to crawl his way to safety through a Jeffries tube. Oops, sorry. Star Trek reference there.

The love story was absolutely terrible. Campy dialogue aside (Blue Screen Effect), Anakin did not convince me that his love for Padme was sufficient for his turn to the dark side. He has a dream that she's going to die and now he's ready to join the dark side? 10 seconds after he realizes Palpatine is a Sith and swears to turn him over to the council, he's hacking off Mace Windu's arm (Stormtrooper Syndrome) and kneeling at Palpatine's feet, pledging himself to Sidious' teachings. Palpatine slapping Anakin with a dark side ice cream cone would have been better motive. All of a sudden he's off murdering Jedi and Separatist leaders on Mustafar (what a convenient way to wrap up a loose plot line on a lava planet). You'd think that any doubt in Anakin's mind about the Jedi Order's perceived deception against the Republic would have been outweighed and eliminated by his knowledge that the SUPREME CHANCELLOR IS AN ANGRY SITH LORD RUINING EVERYBODY'S DAY! Guess that didn't register.

They should have established a lust for power earlier on. Not just Jedi powers, but command over others, so that his final bitch-fest with Obi-wan wouldn't have fallen flat on its face when he starts talking about "my new Empire". You know, right after he had crushed the windpipe of the woman he joined the dark side to save from death? The death of his mother seemed like it could have been a strong turning point in Anakin's quest for power. Only complete control, absolute obedience from others through fear, would keep his lover safe. That is obtained through absolute power, which corrupts absolutely. Not some mystical Force ritual to bring her back from the dead. The power/love combination was tepid, out of balance, and inadequate to justify Anakin's actions.

It was a big mistake filming EVERYTHING in front of a blue/green screen. Does it not seem like common sense that an actor would draw inspiration from the environment around him, adding depth to his performance? Not only did the acting suffer noticeably except for Liam Neeson and Ewan McGreggor, it seemed the CGI people went completely spastic with what they decided to add in the backgrounds. These films were just plain too busy. The first trilogy had a beautifully epic feel, a simple complexity. Notice the use of color schemes: A New Hope begins in space with the vast white of a starship, melding into the earth toned expanses of barren Tatooine desert, followed by the grays of the Death Star, and the blackness of space. Empire opens up with the overwhelming snows on Hoth, the black of the asteroid field, the swamps of Dagobah, and the dusk tones of Cloud City. Return of the Jedi brought us back to Tatooine and Dagobah, and gave us the forest of Endor along with the final space battle.

Other interesting inconsistencies:
R2-D2 has jets on his feet, and all sorts of other cool gadgets. Where the heck did they go?

E1-3 lightsaber duels are all flashy showmanship. Give me the slightly slower, more deliberate Empire and Jedi fighting style.

Jar-jar. Ugh. No more need be said.

Hope you enjoyed this rant. For something completely different, next will be another recipe!

Paula Deen Part 2: Now Fortified with Vitamin B YAWULL!

That's right. So scary she demanded a second post.

Once again as I was channel surfing in the comfort of my Swedish Tempurpedic bed, I couldn't help but stop and be captivated by this train wreck. And I'm talking a C-4 fronted silver bullet through a gas-tanker that has already exploded on a playpen of puppies and kittens and babies and rainbows train wreck. Apparently she's been awarded another show on the Food Network in which she hosts some kind of dinner/cult party. How? I have no idea, I figure somebody lost a bet, died or was eaten.

She was choking up some speech about taking care of yourself, and in consternation I wondered if I was right... Maybe she had accidentally eaten someone close to her. On and on she went about taking care of your health, how she and her Santa-like hubby had quit smoking, and how this show was dedicated to "Vitamin B." Even the audience was confused at this point, and I knew something wasn't right. We had walked right in to a culinary ambush, but it was too late. "Oh no..." I thought to myself, "Sweet lord, she's talking about butter..."

"I'm talkin 'bout BUTTER YAWULL!"

*AUDIENCE CHUCKLES AND APPLAUDS*

*I CRY, BUT ODDLY AROUSED, CAN'T LOOK AWAY*

At this point my tongue had migrated back towards my tonsils in an attempt to strangle myself from within, but to no avail. She had us all completely fooled and was now moving in for the kill. What came next was so perverse that it fused through my retinas to permanently tattoo itself to the frontal lobes of my long term memory. Four shirtless barbarians entered the room carrying a massive rectangular mass of butter high aloft their shoulders on a stretcher. An Ark of the Butter-nant if you will. Paula carved out a chunk close to her body weight, and sent them back on their merry way while making some joke about her non-existent sexuality. Whether she was talking to the men or the butter, we'll never know. To her credit, the recipes she made did contain a large amount of butter: Fettucine Alfredo, Deep Fried Butter Sticks in Butter-Gravy, Butterpad Ravioli in Butter Sauce, and a light, refreshing spring-time cocktail of Butter-rum Julips.

After spending the next 30 minutes of life in shame, repenting of the sins I had just witnessed, I realized that the opening credits for this show were rolling again. That's right, the train was backing up for another pass at whatever flaming puppies/kittens/babies/rainbows it might have missed the first time around. Show number two was about to begin, and once again I was mesmerized.

First on the menu was deep fried alligator. "Dredge it the buttermilk, yawull, then the flower yawull, then the buttermilk again yawull, then the flower again yawull, then you fry it!" At least I think that was the order. I thought maybe "vomit" was one of the steps, but that could have just been something I added inbetween. Really, chicken is so plentiful these days, why go to the trouble of slaughtering your own alligator just to try a recipe? The goal is to taste like chicken right? So just go straight to the source. I dunno, maybe I'm just old-fashioned that way with all this logic and common sense. But she was about to defy all decency once again.

I literally watched in horror as she cut out squares of cold macaroni and cheese from a casserole dish, and proceeded to bread and deep fry them. What made it even worse were the skinny people all around her tasting this fecal excrement to utter delight. That was the final straw. I had to take a shower to scrub the yucky feeling out of me. Just thinking of it sends a shiver down my spine.

For the love of all that is blessedly sacred, DO NOT ENCOURAGE THIS WOMAN. That plump, lush husband of hers would be screaming in arterial pain right now had his nerves not been so dulled by the diabeetis.

Fat=TEH STOOPID!!!11!1!!ELEVENTY!!

When you see a Fat Person you make assumptions. Many, if not most of them are negative. It's true, admit it. You're a horrible person.

But it's ok.

At least partially, and I'll tell you why.

This is not uncommon behavior, nor is it necessarily bad. We are trained as animals to make gut reactions to people and situations, instigating a "fight or flight" reaction. "Am I food for him, or is he food for me?" "Is this person or situation a threat or boon to my survival?" Life and death decisions used to be made solely on this initial five second intake of information. Physical observations lead to physical assumptions. Physical traits do indeed have an emotional, or even primal effect on other individuals. Many cultures admire(d) Fatness as a sign of wealth and prominence. Men sought it in women, as good weight represented a fertile body with the ability to bear young and propagate the species. Women sought it in men as evidence of an affluent provider when food and protection were scarce. Of course now in today's overly affluent cultures, unless you are cursed with a metabolism in permanent overdrive, anyone can get Fat. Oversaturation of the market by unworthy impostors has flooded the world with pretenders to greatness, and the gut instinct towards Fatness has become lost.

As man's self-awareness and conscious mind have evolved, our ego begs the question be answered "Can I take this guy?"; or "How am I better than her?" The mind becomes evermore complex. Now as we observe physical characteristics, we tend to make character judgments about intelligence and mental aptitude, wrongly believing coexistence means causality. Apples and oranges my corpulent friends... Two things that are completely different from each other and 99% of the time share no common or universal correlation.

I am a firm believer that stereotypes exist for a reason, be they accurate or not in a given individual situation. There is nothing wrong with observing trends of behavior and recognizing the possibility, or even probability of that trend applying to a certain person. The line is drawn when you assume that ALL black people are thugs, that ALL Mexicans steal cars, that ALL Fat People are lazy, eat like cows in heat, and are stupid.

The association of Fat equaling stupid is promulgated throughout television and pop culture. Look at some of the examples Hollywood has thrust upon it's herds of sheeple-viewers as the norm for intelligence, rather than the exceptions that they truly are.

Eric Cartman:

Fat and Stupid

Peter Griffin:

Don't get me wrong, he's hilarious, but it's because he's Fat and Stupid.

Fat Bastard:

Again, funny as hell, but it's because he's Fat and stupid.

Rosie O'Donnell:

Fat and Stupid. That's actually one of her better pictures. Not to be confused with:

Roseanne:

Who is also Fat and Stupid. For some reason she's also on a recent stint of political rants in an attempt to sound intelligent. Sorry, but that monotonous whine fails to help the cause of the week inbetween your incessant heavy breathing. Guess she just now realized that hitching her career on to Tom Arnold's was a big mistake. Maybe she thinks she's this guy-

Michael Moore:

Fat and Stupid.

The titanic:

Fat and Stupid (bit of a stretch I know, but would YOU run headlong into a massive iceberg?)

Who does network TV news always get live on camera playing the role of angry, uneducated, and possibly racist witness to a crime? That's right. The Fat Woman in a tube top. If you still aren't fully grasping the concept here, let me give you some examples of positive Fat role models that we should all be focusing on.

Mr. Belvedere:

Fat and Charming. Who couldn't learn something from this guy? His lessons in etiquette and behavior lasted 117 episodes over 5 seasons in the mid-1980's. Shame they don't make British tanks like that anymore.

George Foreman:

Fat and Edible. That's not a grill, it's a portable $19.99 shrine to exalt this man's greatness. Where else can you prepare twice as much meat in half the time, while catching all that grease for later? I actually own one of this guy's suits, and it is incredible.

Jabba the Hutt:

Fat and Intelligent. Sure he may have met an untimely death, but this guy was one of the biggest, baddest, smartest gangsters in the entire galaxy. Comes complete with your own Leia in Slave Outfit.

Any female model prior to 1960:
Search for your own pictures. Seriously, any example will do. These women would eat the current wafer-like excuses for models as a snack to accompany afternoon tea. And that's just the MALE models. Twice their size, and still gorgeous.

Perhaps it's time to walk you through a prime example from the movie Office Space:



Stephen Root's character Milton was assumed to be slow and incompetent-a barren wasteland of human intellect. Fat People may not necessarily have a lot of book smarts, but they clock in heavy on the street smarts. Watch as Milton enters a restricted office undetected, swipes hundreds of thousands of dollars contained in an envelope sitting in plain sight, sets the building on fire, and retires to a tropical island paradise... All under the guise of retrieving his stapler. The man is Fat and he is a genius.

So the lesson here, just as it is with any stereotype: you make assumptions about Fat People at your own risk. Not my fault if you end up inside a Sarlaac Pit Monster's yaw.

Fatiquette Part 2: Seating

Theaters, airplanes, ground transportation, classroom settings... Attempts at improving comfort have been made on the ergonomic, material, and design fronts but so far the most basic and common sensical area remains a mystery to these engineering monkeys. Sheer size. In the context of Fat, bigger almost always means better. While it is true that 90% of the logistical problems in Fat seating arise due to shoddy engineering and architectural design, nearly all of these problems can be overcome with a little planning and foresight into the mutual respect that must be fostered between Fat and non-fat people.

Take your average classroom for example. If a 3rd grader cannot properly fit in a wooden desk that was handcarved during World War the First, what makes teachers or school administrators believe that a college student can, much less one of my stature? It is a proven fact that student comfort levels influence grades, and it is a school's responsibility to provide that proper learning environment (posture correction be damned). The classes I enjoyed the most, and received some of my highest marks in, were the ones that had large classrooms with a couple standalone chairs and tables in the back. My mind was free to contemplate the lecture topic of the day since the left side of my body was not completely numb. I've come to realize the confines of single seating defy reason regardless of size and stature.

Group seating is an entirely different beast, with it's own set of concerns.

I highly endorse Southwest airlines. Not only do they have cheap fares on more direct flights than you can shake a stick of butter at, but they have open seating with some of the roomiest cabins around. This means that if you have an A, B or sometimes even a C pass that is first to board, you are more than likely going to be able to snag that coveted aisle seat. You'll just have to shoot immediately to the back of the plane. Plow through any who stand in your way, be they women, children... or those arch nemesis beverage carts. On occasion you may luck out and spot an aisle seat next to a small child. SNAG THAT SEAT! This is the beacon of opportunity you've been hoping for, as pending a raised armrest, you will inevitably be able to spill over into the child's seat without causing any discomfort or invasion of space. However, some of my previous attempts to employ this tactic have been thwarted by inconsiderate parents. For some reason parents become retardedly overprotective when flying with their children, as if someone is going to kidnap them 30,000 feet in the air and disappear in a re-enactment of that terrible Jodie Foster movie. It should be a mandatory law that children must be placed in middle seats, and never next to another child. Say it's for safety purposes to prevent people from clogging the aisles. No one is safe when I get cranky due to my legs falling asleep. Hell, blame it on the war on terror... make something up so we don't waste space. You'd think that airlines would jump all over the chance to save space, right?

Case in point a recent full flight on Southwest from Phoenix to Nashville. I had boarded with my B pass, and was making a bee-line to the back of the plane. Seeing no available children I proceeded to plop down in one of the last remaining aisle seats, one row from the very back. A grown man was sitting next to the window, so I did my best to discourage any person of substance from taking the middle seat. I raised the armrest, placed my comic books in the seat next to me (I never travel wthout them), and willed my body to expand horizontally in an attempt to eliminate as much space as possible. Common depth perception usually deters most people from claiming what's left of my row in an awkward sequence of darting glances and avoided eye contact. As a flight attendant announced that this was a completely full flight a family of four was approaching the back of the plane: mom, dad, and two middle school kids. Vacant seats were located in front of me, next to me, and two behind me. I figured this would work out great. Let mom and dad sit together behind me and put the two kids in the middle seats so as not to cramp anyone's grill. Instead their ineptitude led to mom in a middle seat in front of me, one Fat Man and two lesser-men being crammed into three seats side-by-side, and two children sprawled out next to each other one row back. Remember when I said Fatiquette was a two-way street? Had a child sat next to me I would have entertained them the entire flight with comic books, stories from Fatland, and advice on how to succeed in life (Get Fat... quick). What ensued was 3-1/2 hours of blatant disregard for Fat Superiority and frequent leg-stretching trips to the lavatory/snack bar at the back of the plane.

For your viewing pleasure, observe this cheap graphic of what usually happens (inefficient) vs. what SHOULD happen (efficient). P = parent, Ch = child, ( Meeee ) = Me, I I = Aisle.

Imagine your typical plane seating as such:


As the modern age thrusts its presence upon us, many public establishments have instigated one of the most prolific advancements in Fat Promotion since fast food: the raiseable armrest. Most of the new stadium-seating theaters feature this technological marvel, with many airlines and live venues gradually following suit. It has long been the industry standard that only inner armrests on airplanes were raiseable, which greatly and unacceptably limited comfort and freedom of movement. To my surprise, the last flight I flew on allowed me to move BOTH armrests in my aisle seat, and there's no feeling like liberating your outer thighs into a wayward flight attendant's path.

In summary, the shorthand version of seating Fatiquette compels you.

1. Bigger IS better.
2. At least one empty seat in-between.
3. Fly Southwest and find aisle seats in the back of airplanes.
4. Immediately raise all armrests.
5. Make a new friend. The younger the better.

Until next time, Fat prevails.