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ILLNESS
"While it may often be obvious why a certain individual gets fat, it is far more difficult to understand why the average weight of certain societies has recently been growing. While genetic causes are central to who is obese, they cannot explain why one culture grows fatter than another. This is most notable in the United States. In the years from just after the Second World War until 1960 the average person's weight increased, but few were obese. In 1960 almost the entire population was well fed, but not overweight. In the two and a half decades since 1980 the growth in the rate of obesity has accelerated markedly and is increasingly becoming a public health concern."
-wikipedia.org [accessed October 3, 2005]
Morbid Obesity
In the past six months I've gained two hundred pounds. I'll repeat that for emphasis: in the past six months, I've gained two hundred pounds. I consume at least 7000 calories daily, well over twice as much as any non-Olympian would ever need. And in less than a half-year, I've inflated faster than a balloon dog at a clown convention.
But just how does one go from a svelte 145 pounds to making Rosie O'Donnell look like one of those Rwandan waifs from the World Vision TV commercials?
Here's my secret: when I wake up in the morning, I round up as much food as I can. Once I have enough for one sitting, I eat and eat until I'm about to throw up. Then I take a break, and usually go scavenging for more food. After my break, I start all over again. I call this the vomit threshold technique.
Using the technique has forced me to change my diet. At first I tried vomit threshold with rice, fruits, vegetables, low-fat sources of protein, water, whole-grain bread, and cereals high in dietary fiber, but those days were among the most unpleasant of my life. Eventually I wised up and switched to my current diet, which consists primarily of Ben and Jerry's ice cream, Pepsi Vanilla, assorted deep-fried foods, malt liquor, cheese toast, and bacon paste.
The Pope doesn't eat this well.
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I Love Being Fat
Obesity is so marvelous, it's silly. The advantages are almost too many to count. Because I can't walk more than a yard or two without feeling dizzy, the State Department of New Jersey gave me a handicapped parking sticker for my SUV. It's only three big steps from the car door to the front door of most McDonald'ses.
But when I don't drive I still win. Public transportation means crazy respect. I'm like a king or something. When I walk onto a bus, people sitting near the front change seats to make room for me. Even better, I almost always get two (2) seats completely to myself! Other people don't even try and sit next to me! Who thought being this ridiculously large could be so fun?
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Ok, I'll Admit It
I'm not quite as agile as I used to be. There are some things I can't do anymore, like touch my hips, walk up the stairs to my ex-girlfriend's apartment, or tie my shoelaces without coughing up blood. But it's not my fault. Haven't you read the newspapers? Obesity is an illness, not the consequence of an irresponsible and ultimately destructive set of life choices. My genetics and society are to blame, not me.
Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Like I said, I love being fat. I just don't want to be sick. Can you understand this? My family doctor couldn't. I visited him yesterday, told him I had an illness, and asked him for what every sick man wants: drugs.
He recommended a balanced diet and regular exercise. The conversation went downhill from there. "You need to start looking after yourself," he said.
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"No way," I shot back. "I want some pills."
"Pills won't solve your problem, Murray James, but taking better care of your body will."
"Screw that, doc. Give me the meds."
"Murray James, I'm not going to prescribe you anything."
"What—no prescription? Did you buy your M.D. online? I got news for you doc: prescribing is what doctors do."
"You don't need a prescription. You need to start living right!"
"I'll tell you what you need. You need to take that pencil out of your ear, pull that notepad out of your pocket, and hook me up with some drugs—right now."
"Murray James, you're not listening to me! Stop eating so damn much!"
The doctor and I went back and forth like this for a while, until I spat in his face, kicked over his chair, and swore at him in German. He replied by getting security to escort me out of the building. I guess he knows German.
Pills or no pills, I'm still happy—the near-constant influx of bacon paste makes sure of that. Being grotesquely overweight might be hazardous to my health, but it's brought me a joy I never thought possible. I eat what I want when I want, and at the end of the day, my problem isn't overindulgence, gluttony, or reckless disregard for my physical well-being. My problem is simple: I'm sick!
[off-topic postscript]
People treat you differently when you're dangerously fat. Last week, a McDonald's employee—who was also, incidentally, an undergrad in political science at Rutgers University—asked if I was deceased former US President William Howard Taft.
"No," I said angrily, "the ex-President has been dead nearly a century."
"Dude. Really?"
"Yes, really." I continued: "Young man, your ignorance of American history betrays not only your utter lack of knowledge in your intended field of study, but the quality of your so-called education as well. Sadly, this academic poverty is nothing but typical of the student experience at that barren intellectual landscape that is Rutgers University."
Just then a manager holding a carton of eggs burst from the walk-in cooler. I recognized the man immediately. It was Dr. Patrick Ridley, my Graduate American History professor from spring semester. For quite some time Dr. Ridley, a maladjusted McDonald's manager, had been moonlighting as part of the tenured political science faculty at Rutgers.
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William Howard McTaft,
27th President of the United States
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He didn't appear to recognize me. "Where's the US President?" he shouted. The acolyte McUndergrad pointed in my direction. Wild-eyed, Dr. Ridley screamed and pelted me with eggs.
"Professor Ridley," I exclaimed, "I'm Murray James Morrison, from your Graduate American History class! What are you doing?"
"This is for Iraq, you bastard!"
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