So. I haven’t mentioned this here* before now because, frankly, I’m quite terrible at self-promotion and have a frustrating inclination toward devaluing my abilities and diminishing my accomplishments. This is why I would probably benefit from having some kind of agent/manager/Lesley-wrangler.
Anyway. Deep breath:
I’ve been chosen as one of 40 feminists under 40 to be honored at The Feminist Press’ 40th Anniversary Gala in New York, this rapidly-approaching Monday night. A gala! Which is sort of like a ball! Which sort of makes me like a fat feminism-y princess! I can’t be cool about this. It seems unreal. I am incredibly touched and flattered and teary-eyed and blubbery* at the people who nominated me for this — not to mention extraordinarily humbled to be in such astonishing company. Have you seen the list?
It’s been awhile, so I just wanted to say thank you, from the very core of my soul, for reading and commenting and lurking and agreeing and calling me full of shit. It is a privilege and a pleasure, to communicate with so many people, so loudly, on subjects about which I am so passionate, and I will never take that for granted, not for a moment. My words are nothing without you all to read them, so: thank you.
—
* I have mentioned it on the Twitters and the Facebooks, though. Baby steps.
** In the emotional sense, as opposed to the physical one, which I am ALL THE TIME already.
Two opportunities for you, my fats, to talk about your hulking awesome:
First, I’ve received a communiqué from Eve Binder, who is writing a piece for The Daily Beast on fat studies and fat college life. From the email:
“I’m looking for students who have taken courses in the field, as well as fat students (or recent graduates) who want to share their experiences of weight perception in college. On a slightly different front, I’d also like to speak with anyone who’s had a particularly positive or negative experience with university admins over weight issues–for instance, anyone who’s ever tried and failed to get roomier seating in a classroom, or anyone who successfully got a sturdier bed frame by lobbying the school. Youngish folk are of interest here, since the story will mostly examine trends that have arisen during the last 5 years or so… From poking around a bit, I can see that many of your readers have interesting stories, and I’d love for them to share if they’re willing. Anyone interested should contact me ASAP at eve.binder@gmail.com, and we can discuss details from there.”
Caveat: I do not know anything about the author, so use your judgment when volunteering to participate! She seems nice enough, but I am likely biased as she was very complimentary of this here blog. Don’t judge me.
Second, the everfabulous Bri, whom you may know from Fat Lot of Good, is looking to interview fat chicks with tattoos. If you fit the description and would like to take part in her research, you can email Bri at bri@fatlotofgood.org.au.
Some weeks ago I received an email from Jeremy Owen, the artist behind Burly, a collection of “beefy pinups with a geeky twist.†It’s probably not a shock that I was very, very chuffed about this, given my occasional musings on the sexuality and sexualization, queer or otherwise, of fat men’s bodies.
This collection doesn’t disappoint. The drawings are cheeky without crossing into saccharine, and sexy without being porn-ified. The geek culture references are particularly charming, so much that my experience looking through the images included a series of high-pitched squealing noises. Sexualized and appreciative images of fat men are rare — arguably rarer even than of sexualized fat women, though those images are certainly not without their problems — and so this slim book is a welcome addition to my fat-art collection. (The only complaint came from my husband, who thoughtfully suggested some of the subjects could be fatter. Everyone’s a critic.)
When I ordered my copy, Jeremy was kind enough to include a second so that I might give it away to a lucky reader with a similar appreciation for the fine fat male form. To enter, leave a comment below and be sure to include a valid email address in the appropriate field (this won’t be published publicly on the site, but will enable me to notify you and get your mailing address if you win). I’ll choose a winner by random drawing next Friday, October 22nd, and will announce the results here. ETA: International entries are welcome!
Check out two more (possibly less-worksafe) teasers after the jump.
Of course, if you’d rather not wait to win, you can always order Burly yourself here.
Yep, another quick hit, but I’m trying to write a book here! The above video — it’s super short so do consider watching it — was posted to the United States Health & Human Services YouTube channel back in January. Yeah, I didn’t know they had a YouTube channel either. In it, Regina Benjamin, the US Surgeon General whose nomination was met with noisy criticism over her being too fat for the job, says of the alleged fat rampage taking place over the bodies of Americans: “The good news is, we can be healthy and fit at any size or any weight. As America’s family doctor, I want to change the national conversation from a negative one about obesity and illness, to a positive conversation about being healthy and being fit.”
THAT. JUST. HAPPENED.
The radicalness of this position in the current climate cannot be understated, and it is outrageously gratifying to hear it from a top public health official. A positive conversation! Who could possibly take issue with that?
(Don’t answer.)
ETA: Whoops, Big Fat Blog already posted the video above. Oh wells, consider this a signal boost.
It seems that the result many of us dreaded most has come to pass: Huge has been canceled. We’ve lost not only a series that was of impressive quality by any standard, but some of the best, most sensitive, and most nuanced representations of diverse bodies and diverse people (not to mention being really, really awesomely queer) seen on TV in recent memory. I feel really lucky to have produced some damn definitive recaps for this show, and to have felt a part of it, even if that only happened in my head.
This thread is for folks to post their sadness, rage, battle cries, or whatever else you feel like.
Come join us at the wake.
ETA: Shannon of Fierce Fatties has started a Save Huge group on Facebook, whence a letter-writing offensive shall soon be mounted. Check it out here. While I don’t know Shannon well, he’s struck me as one of the more tenacious people on the fatosphere.
ETA 2: Jezebel is taking the road well-traveled and has launched a petition to keep Huge, uh, rolling along (sorry, I had to).
I’ve made the promised video, in which I repeat the important parts of Friday’s post on bullying and harassment. While giving young people hope is of the utmost importance, sometimes a results-based outcome (i.e., “it will get better”) is less effective than the assurance that you are okay, even in the midst of the worst.
Given my general loathing of the webcam video as a means of correspondence, it says something that I motivated myself to do this. I hope it’s a nice companion piece to the original piece on which it’s based.
Links:
The It Gets Better Project
The Trevor Project
Love is Louder
Middle school was worst for me.
I suppose it’s different for everyone; some folks have it worse in high school, but by the time I got there I was better at not picking up other people’s baggage and carrying it around like it was my own. Certainly, high school had its horrifying moments: there was the day I took off my jacket to find an enormous volume of saliva and mucus smeared across the back of it — this was a truly impressive spitball, or rather series of spitballs — and had to wonder how long I’d walked around like that as I washed it off in a drinking fountain in the hallway between classes. Even the memory makes me gag; with disgust, sure, as I can remember the smell and and feel of it as though it were happening all over again, right now — but also with fury. Someone literally spat on me. And I would never know who it was.
Fortunately, by high school I had a well-developed sense of outrage, and anger is what gets some of us through. In middle school I did not, and instead I soaked up the abuse like I was made for it. My anger first began to surface around the eighth grade, at which point I had to make a choice about whether I would internalize these feelings and blame myself, or whether I would find another way. In that pre-Columbine era it hadn’t occurred to me that anyone could do anything else, and so I diligently directed the lion’s share of my anger outward, writing fictionalized stories about the gruesome deaths of my many bullies and harassers, me as the spirit of blazing vengeance bringing penance upon them, for what they did, for all the things they did, and why did they do them? Why hurt someone? Why humiliate someone? Why do it to me? What do you gain from it? Is the abuse supposed to make me more like you? Or is it just personally gratifying to know you’ve left a wound that your victim may well tend for the rest of her life? And if that is gratifying, then what the fuck is wrong with you, you hate-worshipping, despicable, sociopathic piece of shit?
My gender and sexuality were as central as my being fat to my own experiences of being bullied, going all the way back to elementary school. “Lesley†shares its first three letters with “lesbianâ€, after all, and children will make creative use of such happy coincidences. Today, as a queer woman monogamously partnered (and legally married) to a cisgendered man, the finer points of my identity are mostly invisible. The obvious advantage — and privilege — to this is that I get to pass for straight, and my natural inclinations toward privacy on such matters means that it’s exceedingly rare that the subject comes up as a personal matter. The heaviest cross I have to bear is being invisibly queer, and having folks constantly assume straightness, which does bother me, and which I will correct in circumstances that allow for it. But I can never forget I have the extreme luxury of being able to choose what I disclose with regard to my gender and sexual orientations, and that I can go out with my husband and not be harassed as queer.
Going out alone is a different matter.
Throughout my life, the overwhelming majority of the fat-related harassment I’ve received has also questioned my sexuality. I don’t precisely know why — indeed, my years of musing over the intersections of fatness and queerness have been efforts to understand it — but that’s how it goes. Being out with my husband acts as a shield against harassment of either kind, and I’ve decided this is a result of two factors. Firstly, being out with him demonstrates that hey, I may be an epic fatass, but I’ve proven my ability to attract a heterosexual partner! Go me! I’ve satisfied at least one feminine expectation, even if I have failed at all the rest! Secondly, I imagine harassers will bite their tongues out of fear that my husband may react with violence to any attack upon me — which is a dangerous misapprehension as I am far more likely to respond with force than he is. Ask the kid whose hand I crushed in sixth grade, after he’d spent months trying to grope me in class, while calling me a lesbian when I tried to stop him. Ask the teens at whose escaping car I threw a full cup of coffee after they yelled “fat dyke†at me in well-planned unison while I stood at an intersection. I don’t advocate violence — indeed, violence solves nothing and causes far more trouble than it’s worth — but I am far closer to that edge than someone might think, when they see me as a fat object, not even a woman, not even a human, certainly as nothing worthy of respect.
I’ve got anger, and anger is intrinsically neither good nor bad, but can be destructive or constructive depending on how you use it. Anger can make me throw things or get up in someone’s face, neither of which is particularly useful or wise, but it can also make me speak up and act out — it drives me to change the fucking world so that the bullies and harassers are the ones who are isolated and ostracized, and not congratulated on their wretched sense of humor.
Tyler Clementi is just one of an untold number of kids who have killed themselves over harrassment related to their sexual or gender identity. His story is heartbreaking, as is the story of every kid who felt they could not go on living under the yoke of continued harassment and bullying. These tragedies are not by any means a new phenomenon; today we are privy to background and context for these suicides that would historically have been buried, hidden, a family secret no one speaks aloud.
When the massacre at Columbine first broke, before we’d unearthed all the details and heard the fuller context and built it into our collective memory, I was a senior in college. I saw the story on the news in my apartment and I felt a sinking blackness in my gut, a palpable sense of recognition, and the first thought that sprung to mind was, yeah, I can see somebody doing that. I understood, immediately, before there were details, before there was context, I knew what could drive a kid to murder his classmates and then himself. It seemed almost inevitable. I did not like that I was capable of that understanding; I hate that some of us have experiences that put us in a place where we can relate to such insanity and horror, however distantly.
I began this piece by trying to write something to record for Dan Savage’s It Gets Better project on YouTube, which was launched as a response to the many queer kids who believe their only way out is by dying. But I’ve really struggled with coming up with something I feel is broadly-applicable enough to be relevant. So instead, I’ve written what I would have liked to hear, back then, in my darkest adolescent moments. I am touched by people every day who tell me that the things I write here — even the things I am convinced no one will relate to, that I believe are too specific or too raw or too me — that these things help them. That hearing it helps people to know that they’re not alone. Thus, I’m hoping that this will likewise speak to some of you.
You are okay.
You are.
The world does not define you — the people who call you names, who physically assault you, who break your heart, who pin you down with words and labels, and the culture that supports them — these things do not define you either.
There are people out there who understand, who get you, and who have been where you are and come out the other side. There are so many people, and when it seems that you are most alone, realize that it is only because you are in a place where you can’t see them, right now — you are trapped in the passage between all the uncertainties of adolescence and a world beyond, where you can choose your circumstances. You won’t be in this place forever, and you are far from alone. Each time you are bullied, or harassed, or humiliated, there is an army of thousands standing at your back, all of whom know, all of whom have been bullied, and harassed, and humiliated too. And one day when you’re older and you’ve created the life you want for yourself, you’ll hear about some kid being tormented and you’ll be there as well, standing behind him, watching the scene unfold with a chilling familiarity, bearing witness to his struggle to survive.
I will not say that people will always be easier on you, later in life, just because you’re older. That’s not a promise I can make. What I can promise is that while the world may not dramatically change, you will. You will learn to let other people’s bullshit go. You will learn to bend without breaking, and you will learn to fight without backing down. And every single day that you go out into the world as yourself without apology and without regret, you are changing things, bit by bit.
You are precious, and beautiful, not in spite of the things that set you apart, but because of them. Being different is hard, and standing out is hard, and though some of us may willingly choose a life in which we make daily spectacles of ourselves on purpose, sometimes that life chooses us and we have to learn to accept that — or learn to revel in it.
Through it all, remember: You are okay.
Whatever happens, you will be okay, but you must persist and survive; you must continue to get up every morning and push forward, hour by hour, minute by minute, and one day you’ll look around and realize things don’t seem so bad anymore. And one day you’ll look around and realize the shit that other people lay on you is their problem, and not yours. And one day, you’ll see yourself in the mirror and know, “I am okay.â€
However alone you feel, understand that there are people who out there who love you without ever having met you, and who fight at your side every day to make space for you in this world — to make space for all of us. We need you. We need your voice, your presence, your anger, your hope; we need you alive.
You are precious, and beautiful… and it will get better. Because it has to. Because we will make it better.
Dear World: These are all the reasons why I will not be having weight-loss surgery.
By Lesley | September 28, 2010
Out of respect for people’s privacy and their control of their own bodies, the majority of conversations we have about weight-loss surgery (WLS) in fat-talkin’ circles — like this here blog — tend to be rooted in the language of body autonomy, and this is as it should be. My body is not your body and your body is not mine, and we’d all be better off respecting each other’s individual and subjective choices about same.
Having said the above, while we often acknowledge, even begrudgingly, the reasons why a person might choose to go the WLS route, and we sometimes venture onto the slippery slope of saying why a vague and unnamed person — but not you! I wouldn’t tell you what to do! — shouldn’t have WLS, we don’t often speak in equally individual and subjective terms about why we don’t — and won’t — have it done ourselves. Maybe this is because we just assume that not-having-WLS is the default state, or that all of our reasons are identical. I think this is a mistake; just like different people have different reasons for choosing surgical intervention, different people also have different reasons for not doing so.
Thus, these are all the reasons why I will not be having weight loss surgery. This is not to pass judgement on why you had it, or why you’re going to have it, or why you’d have it if you could, or why you can’t although you would. This is about me, and my decision, just like yours are about you, and yours. Sometimes, taking a non-proscriptive approach and speaking simply and honestly from the heart goes a lot further than making broad generalizations. Let’s try it.
Reason: Surgery sucks. Lifesaving benefits aside, even minor surgery is hardly a walk in the park on a sunny fucking day. I have had laparoscopic abdominal surgery, out of necessity, and lo, did it suck mightily, in the days and hours and minutes leading up to the event and for even longer thereafter. There may come other times in my life when I must have surgery for immediate and life-threatening issues, and hey, if that’s the way it goes I will cross that bridge when I come to it. But I would not repeat the experience without a very pressing need, if only because I don’t ever want to hear a nurse curtly inform me that she’ll bring me a bedpan ever again, if I can possibly avoid it.
Reason: My digestive tract is mostly awesome. It is true that we have not always gotten along. Particularly in the first year following the daring escape of my gallbladder-gone-rogue. But so long as I pay attention and make smart choices, my digestive tract does what it’s meant to, and does it well. It takes the food I eat and turns it into energy, which gets shuttled around to the vital bits that need powering, and the extra stuff gets turned into waste, which is efficiently and predictably… evacuated. Also, if I eat something that’s going to make me ill, my stomach ejects it with terrifying and exacting haste. Perhaps more to the point, my fatness is not a result of a malfunction of my digestive tract. Even if I thought Something Had To Be Done about my fatness, I’m not much for playing musical chairs with my internal organs when they’ve got nothing to do with it.
Reason: Bariatric surgery creeps me right out. I can’t even think about it too hard or I start to feel queasy, and I am not a person who is easily enqueasened by biological and medical stuff. I wanted my surgeon to save my gallbladder, for example, so I could keep it in a jar, though he refused (and gave me a look like I was some creepy fetishistic deviant for even asking, but come on, it’s MY gallbladder, isn’t it? and how often do we get to see an internal organ, topside? I am still a little disappointed about this, years later). I will talk at length about the finer points of my own and other folks’ menstrual cycles, given the chance (have you seen the Beautiful Cervix Project? Be warned that link is as non-work-safe as is possible for any link to conceivably be). But bariatric surgery gives me a serious case of the gross-outs. A surgeon takes healthy tissue and Frankensteins it around… INSIDE YOU. The idea really makes me shudder. I think lap bands actually spook me the most, what with the insertion of an INFLATABLE DONUT AROUND YOUR STOMACH which squeezes on that poor sad stomach to make it accept less food. GAAAAH. I need to move on here. I am getting freaked even now.
Reason: Bariatric surgery is an industry built on fat hatred. True facts, y’all. It’s a very lucrative industry, in fact, and getting more profitable all the time, while often downplaying the risks associated with the surgeries it’s peddling. Certainly, there are lots of evil industries I patronize — I ain’t holier than thou — but we all draw our lines somewhere. Some folks only buy responsibly and sustainably produced clothing. Some folks go vegan. I’ve been known to purchase the stray hoodie from Old Navy and to enjoy the company of a nice steak. But I do refuse to give the weight-loss industry — and in this I include all supermarket diet foods and drinks, commercial diet programs, evil fat-hating personal trainers, and anything marketed with slenderizing promises, including Spanx — a single solitary penny of my money. I am, you might say, on a permanent diet with regard to diets, and bariatric surgery is little more than yet another radical diet, albeit one that is surgically enforced.
Reason: I have an amazing wardrobe. Really, kids. Do you know how much time and effort — not to mention expense — has gone into developing my collection of dresses that fit? I wear, on a average, a women’s 26, sometimes a 28, both of which are far beyond the upper size limit at which the vast majority of awesome dresses stop. Even a modest weight loss would mean trouble for me, style-wise. I realize this isn’t that different from folks who want to lose weight so they can fit into certain clothes, but fuck it, I’m being honest here.
Reason: I like food. Sure, weight-loss surgery doesn’t render everyone who has it into uncontrolled vomit machines. But it can. And that’s enough for me. I am not a fan of nausea. I hate the feeling of an overly full stomach. I also hate eating according to a strict schedule, or having to measure things, which is why I am severely pastry-impaired and generally terrible at producing any kind of baked goods. Though I am a good cook in a non-baking sense, I even resent recipes and prefer to improvise — to do things intuitively, as it were. Certainly, there may come a time in the future where I must be more rigid in my dealings with food, but for now, if I just want popcorn for dinner, I’m going to have it. If I don’t feel like eating lunch, then I won’t. I do what I want!
Reason: I trust my body. For me — and I only speak for myself — this kind of elective surgery would betray a lack of trust in my body and its ability to sustain me. My body is, ultimately, the only thing I can truly own; indeed my body is me, we are not separate and discrete entities, and I am not giving directions to a remote object that obeys. We move and work and live together as one, and for me, this surgery would divorce us, would shatter that connectedness and appreciation I have worked damn hard, so damn hard, to cultivate and recover. My body has carried me through my whole life; I have fought and danced and laughed and slept and smiled and cried heaving sobs and seen amazing and beautiful things and screamed for joy and for sorrow and my body has been there for all of it — indeed, without my body I would have none of those stories to tell.
Reason: My body is my activism. My body, as it is, performs activism every day simply by being seen. My body is the book in which I’m writing my hopes for the world. Awhile back, my husband and I were hypothesizing about how the world would change if ever a Magic Pill were invented that made fat people thin, for free, with no risks and no side effects. As I told him them, I will repeat now: I would not take it. Even if I were the last fatass in the world. Some of y’all won’t believe me, and that’s okay. I am more stubborn and willful than my words here can possibly describe.
Having had weight-loss surgery of whatever kind does not automatically mean a person hates fat people. Like so many things in life, these decisions are nuanced, complicated, and personal. And none of my assertions above are intended to imply that folks who do elect to have WLS must hate food, or enjoy surgery, et cetera. Truly, I think the choice to have WLS is likely more indicative of sadness or fear, or both at once, than of a mad rage against fatness. From where I stand, I cannot fathom a circumstance that would compel me in the direction of WLS; I’ve been fat my entire life, and if I have not done it by now, I don’t see it ever happening. But because of my certainty with regard to my own decision on this matter, I must give folks who feel differently the benefit of the doubt — they have their reasons. I have mine. Listed. Above. Just so they’re clear.
Marianne and I are making efforts to get back on a predictable Fatcast-recording schedule, though our mutual busyness is not making it easy. Our most recent episode discusses Beth Ditto’s collection for Evans, communal shopping experiences, and international fat activism. Check it out here. Speaking of, my Beth Ditto spot dress arrived today and it’s loverly.
In other news, I’m humbled and awed to be one of 40 feminists under 40 being honored at the Feminist Press 40th Anniversary Gala in New York next month. Yes, of course, I bought a dress for it.
Elsewhere, Marie Denee at The Curvy Fashionista has launched a petition asking Target to include plus sizes in its designer collaborations. Find out more — including where to sign! — here.
Finally, this cracked my shit right up this morning, and is a nice follow-up to The Suffering Ween post of last week: Boner Police.
On to the outfits:
Both of these pictures were taken with iPhones, so the quality is… not great.
The stripe-and-floral print ruffled dress came from eShakti, though it is now vanished from the website. The cream ruffle-front cardigan came from Target’s straight sizes section — being Of Small Bosom I can usually get away with an XXL in most of their cardigans. The leggings are ancient and their origin is long forgotten. The grey Chuck Taylors came from Marshalls.
Another ruffled dress from eShakti, this time in a dark yellow/beige stripe that is mostly lost in this picture. The navy cardigan is, again, from Target’s straight-size section. The provenance of the pink tights was Avenue. The shoes are the short-lived Spectator Keds (seriously) that sold out so quickly this summer. I wear them TO DEATH. Here’s a better picture.
I do love how I’m standing exactly the same in both pictures.
Hope y’all had a delightful weekend.
(Alternate title: “How Satire Is Doneâ€)
In the course of human history, one can scarcely doubt the true driving force behind every one of humankind’s greatest achievements, be they in art, music, literature, or science. Though some misguided elitists may argue fiercely to the contrary, this force is not our species’ natural curiosity, nor is it our persistent and hopeful search for meaning in an often chaotic and unjust world. This force is not even ambition, or love, or the compassion that surely resides somewhere in even the blackest human soul.
No, the force that drives people worldwide to reach greater and greater heights as a civilization is none of these things, but is rather: men’s boners.
My dear friends! Stay with me here! This is why obesity is such a worldwide crisis, one that needs trumpeting from the front pages of every news outlet at least on a weekly basis. Indeed, daily reminders of the consequences of fatness would be appropriate as we approach this dangerous tipping point, from which no boner returns. Our greatest achievements must be thrust forcibly into a planet willing and ready to be impregnated with men’s brilliance, and the momentum by which this thrusting occurs relies upon the swelling of the masculine organ for its fortitude and clout. The growing incidence of visible fat women, specifically fat women daring to aspire to the lofty heights of sexual agency, is a terrible imposition upon man’s eager inflammation. To put it simply, fat women are making the all-important weens that rule the world into soft, flaccid appendages, of no use for thrusting anything anywhere.
The horror!
When described in such terms, the frustration, resentment, and even violent rages of heterosexual men railing against the forced witnessing of women’s bodies that fail to give them hard-ons becomes a perfectly understandable and even sympathetic response to a world that has failed to identify how deeply (even irreparably, as some things can never be unseen) it has damaged them. We are, after all, describing the single most sensitive and vital organ in a man’s body, from which fully nine-tenths of their motivation to do anything in life is derived.
Clearly, these are young men suffering from a heartbreaking deficiency of boners.
The sight of fat women is a heavy cross said men must bear every moment they step out into the public spaces where people congregate, be they city streets or shopping malls or public transportation or the dentist’s office. Their eyes burning as though filled with a raging fire, their inability to control their speech — the inescapable, uncontrollable need to instruct the offending woman on the pain she is selfishly causing them — this is hardly their fault! They must say something, in the hope that their words will drive the fat woman back into the shadows and thereby cause the unthinkable torture being imposed upon their enfeebled weens to finally relent. They cannot be responsible for the things they say and do while in such agony. We cannot rightly blame them when it is men, and the relative rigidity of their supremely important peckers, who are being attacked here, attacked by fat women who dare to allow themselves to be seen.
Of course they are upset! They are suffering, and we have been content to let them agonize, even going so far as to assert that all people, and all bodies, deserve respect and dignity, and that homogenized and impossible beauty standards are oppressive and hurtful to people of all genders. How could we be so foolish as to overlook the profound effects these erroneous and insulting ideas would have on our society? The weens are the brutalized victims of a series of vicious crimes, without recognition from either the federal government nor law enforcement agencies. How long can we allow this injustice to continue?
Besides the anguish our persistent fatness imposes on individuals, one might argue that by failing to provide boners to men, fat women are also holding back the rapid rise of a most glorious civilization. It is the fault of these uncaring, irresponsible fat women that we continue to hobble along without jet-powered flying cars and food pills and television that we watch inside our heads. Our lack of a suitable and clean alternative to fossil fuels? Cancer, poverty, world hunger? Multiple seasons of Two and a Half Men? All the exclusive responsibility of boner-denying fat women. Surely, if there were more hard penises, all of these debilitating social problems would have been long ago solved, and we would all be reaping the benefits of a stiff-pricked world without disease, poverty, prejudice, or unfunny TV.
The tragic suffering of the weens shall be silenced no more. This is a call to action, to all the fat women, to take responsibility for the terrible burden we have callously and even unwittingly become. Our society is fruitlessly straining against the ever-tightening bonds of penis-softness and we must make amends for the damage we have caused. We can do this by rapidly becoming “hot†and fuckable not according to our own standards, but to the standards of the men — and, of course, of their cocks — whose greatness we have so bridled. It is our responsibility, as women, to stiffen up those johnsons again, and stiffen we must, no matter what it takes, be it misery-inducing diets, obsessive exercise, or dangerous surgeries to permanently sicken our healthy digestive tracts. It is what we were born for. This is our task, our charge, our province, as women: to indirectly empower the genius of men by making their penises hard.
If you can’t do it for yourselves, please, do it for the boners.
—
Originally posted on fatshionista.com; comments are over there.
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