Once upon a time I ate a muffin. It had like infinity calories in it. And also it had like infinity grams of saturated fat in it, too.
I ate it up and it was so good. It’s like Madonna says: “Absolutely no regrets.”
I got all fat.
I got fatter than my car, fatter than my house, and fatter than the place I worked in.
So — boom, just like that, I couldn’t drive my car, and I was homeless and jobless in today’s economy. All because of a goddamn muffin.
But it was worth it.
Because I met a fat dude who was also too big for his car or his house or his place where he had previously worked. Previously meaning, before he ballooned out to grotesque proportions of extreme fatitude.
And oh wait, he hadn’t had a house before, it was a condo, but let’s not split hairs, shall we? I mean, you get my drift that he was a really big dude. Fat as all get-out.
Just like me. We were tubby soul mates.
We got married (it was an outdoor wedding, on account of our not fitting inside any earthly man-made structure yet conceived) and had a bunch of kids. That’s right; we got it on, outside, right in front of God and everybody. (A crowd formed; a man showed up selling popcorn and cotton candy, and it was all quite kinky, actually.) The kids were normal-sized and thought it was weird to go through life with fat parents who were more like mythical creatures, like giants from an ugly planet, than people. Well, screw you, you little ingrates. You’re welcome for being born, geez.
So of course they made a reality show about our family!
It got bad ratings. There was too much fatness and yelling. So we could not even say we sold our souls for some good money or glory.
Then my fat husband and I had heart attacks and died. That’s right — I’m writing this from Heaven.
My formerly fat husband and I are now svelte. It rocks. It rocks being all svelte and hangin’ around in Heaven. How’s that for a happy ending?