Perhaps she has a self-deprecating sense of humour...I don't know, but I've always thought it curious that my mother referred to Pennington's as 'the fat lady's store' since she, too, shopped there. I could ponder this further but, quite frankly, I've got bigger fish to fry.
But you're a leisurologist...you have all the time in the world.
I used to be a leisurologist but, as of yesterday, I've decided to forsake my life of leisure for that of an honest working man. That's right, I've taken a job!
Well, not exactly...it's more that I've launched a career ('job' is such a soul sucking word). I've decided that I want to become a plus-size model. This revelation came to me rather abruptly yesterday as I was sitting on my deck. I was desperately trying to convince myself that the odds of someone dropping by the Varty compound were slim, and when I finally did think it safe, I took my shirt off.
I looked down and hung my head in shame. My chin slapped soft flesh, then trampolined up and down in diminishing amplitude until finally resting on my rather generous bosom. By generous bosom, I really mean great big giant tits. Not just Dollywood big, but cocaine white as well. These puppies hadn't seen sunlight since New Zealand. I quickly put my hands over my man breasts so as not to offend my wife or son. Too late, my son already commented. I think that he envisioned me as a wet nurse to a litter of thirsty piglets. Rather than becoming enraged, I ignored his jabs and allowed my hands to hike around my Grand Tetons.
I felt something to the side of my jugs and, to my horror, I discovered that I had side titties. Saddle bags. Lateral love humps. Twinkie wings. It was as though someone had glued another set of boobs under my armpits. I could have cried, but being of the 'when life gives you lemons' school of thought, I decided to profit from my largess (def: generous bestowal of gifts). I knew that I could make money as a plus-sized model.
Wait, just a minute!
Okay, I'm not plus-sized all over. My face is thin to the point where I can peek through doors that haven't been opened. My arms and legs, both long and gangly, give me the human appearance of Celine Dion's love child (if she mated with a praying mantis...preferably one her own age for a change). My ass looks anorexic, if I even have one...I can't see it without an elaborate arrangement of mirrors. I've got hooters that can hold five pencils...and a goalie stick. My gut is so all-encompassing that my toes stay dry in a downpour, as does a half acre of asphalt.
Have you ever seen those long haul truckers with the giant bellies that hang over their Freightliner belt buckles like muffin-tops made of hairy pink putty? Well, I'm not that bad...but I'll get there if I'm not careful. The funny thing about these truckers is that they look like really big men, but if you sliced off the bacon, they'd actually be quite small. Some of them have really small asses. Look at their skinny little legs too...it's a wonder they can support their pickle barrels bodies over their grimacing belts.
They say that bumble bees shouldn't be able to fly either.
I can't work for Pennington's because it's exclusively a ladies store, though I feel that I could fill out their tummy control swim dress with little or no effort beyond an exhale. I like the tummy control swim dress because it's so practical, and slimming, plus they've even included a cut-out on the back for my blow-hole.
All this typing is making me hungry so I think I'll have a bowlful of krill. I'm not a believer in 'you are what you eat', though, if I were, I'd be eating pears. In the unlikely event that you ever see me shirtless, you'll no doubt be thinking 'what a pear'.