Category Archives: Fat Fuckers

Not Funny

One of the distressing side-effects of Christmas holidays is an increased willingness to spend inordinate amounts of time in front of the television, watching the kind of moronic claptrap that during the rest of the year would rapidly trigger the off-switch response. Having free hours somehow lowers the bar, so that even moderately worthless crap seems like a good reason to slob on the sofa and gaze at the screen for a while.
That is not to say that all discrimination has been abandoned; reality TV is still utter drivel, Honey Boo Boo and her disgusting relatives can all still fuck off and die, and those weird Alaskan bush people can wander off into the wilderness and indulge in whatever unbiblical intercourse gave rise to their unholy brood. Actually, the list of shows worth watching is still really, really short, and consists mostly of cop dramas. If at any time you’re tempted to drift into the realm of network sitcoms they conveniently show clips from time to time, just to remind you why you shouldn’t.
Oh fuck they’re bad. I have in the last 24 hours seen reminders of just how bad, and as a means of determining when you’ve been at home too long and should really get back to work you could do worse than use the following: if at any time you’re tempted to turn on Two Broke Girls, Mike and Molly or the McCarthys you should grab your work clothes and get the fuck out of the house. If you don’t have a job to go to, just leave the house anyway. Or kill yourself. You’d be doing society a favor.
How does anyone manage to make sitcoms with such pitiful, weak, worthless humor? How do you come up with such weak premises and then overlay them with jokes of such mind-numbing banality that only a cretin could enjoy them? And then run them for years? Until the threadbare original premise has been worn to dust on the backs of the idiot actors with which our screens are infected?
I struggled with this question. I know that good sitcoms do exist – we had loads of them back in merry old England. Why are the ones over here so fucking shit? Are Americans somehow programmed to accept more mediocrity, like with their chocolate? And how do you go about writing something so unfunny in the first place?
“Here’s a really great concept – we’ll have a sitcom with fat people.”
“But surely we did that already? Roseanne was fat, and that King of Queens guy was a bloater too.”
“Yeah, but this will be different. We’ll have a whole new slate of jokes about it being OK to be a fat bastard. Not good jokes, but lots and lots of them, all delivered by a really annoying fat bitch”
It still doesn’t make sense. You’d have to specifically breed writers to be that shit – you couldn’t possibly hire them that way. You’d have to start by taking weak comic writers and breeding them selectively with the retarded. The offspring of that accursed coupling would be a litter of retarded comic writers. It wouldn’t be easy, obviously. The comics would be trying to shove it in all the wrong holes, just to be funny, and the retards would be putting it in all the wrong holes because they didn’t know any better, but eventually I figure you could get them to breed. That wouldn’t be enough though. For a real CBS level of comic banality you’d have to take the comic retards and breed them again with a whole new set of retards (or maybe the same ones – it’s not like it matters) and then take the second set of offspring and have them write the script for Two Broke Girls. One part weak comic to three parts retard.
For sure that whole process would take two generations, and would require an investment of time by the network, and a commitment to really shit writing, that is hard to imagine. But what other explanation is there for the sudden explosion of really fucking shit sitcoms on our screens? The second breeding must be reaching maturity and their writing is coming to fruition.
The most depressing aspect of this is that networks are in the business of giving people what they want, and obviously the public likes their humor with very little use of the cerebral cortex required. Which is probably necessary to satisfy the mentality of a population that appears to have been spawned in no small part by acts of love between the actual or borderline retarded. So my TV sucks because people are stupid. I’m half tempted to go back to work, but the stupid live there too, and the sofa isn’t nearly as comfortable. So I’ll smack myself in the head with a brick instead, and get working on my new sitcom about two fat bastards who talk to the dead. It’s called “XXXL Medium”. You’ll fucking love it.

Not Likely, Fatso

So it was Friday night and, being the sophisticated diners that we are, Mrs Bison and I took Bison Daughter to Red Robin. For those not in the know, this is a “family” burger restaurant chain, complete with laminated menus, helium-filled balloons and bored staff who periodically gather and sing some generic birthday song. It is probably best known for the lardiness of its clientele – as we sat in the foyer, awaiting our table for three, surrounded by fellow diners it was hard not to notice how fucking fat they were.

At one point a massively overweight older couple came in, and I instantly winced as they walked over, because I could see that they were about to try and squeeze their enormous rumps onto the same bench seat that we were occupying. As the man sat down, his wife declared “I’m just going to quickly run to the restroom”.

Every fiber of my being wanted to respond “Oh come on, you’re clearly wrong on both counts” but I settled for making this comments to my slim wife. Meanwhile a teenage girl, so fat that her black leggings had become translucent, waddled in. There’s no hope for us in this country so long as obesity is treated as a disease rather than a lifestyle choice…

Walk Or Ride?

I’ve spent a fair amount of the last week meeting people for lunch or dinner, all in the noble cause of “networking”. The venue has varied, according to where the other party is driving from and what we feel like eating, but it’s amazingly easy to eat a lot of crap in a week. Sure, I tend to go for sushi a fair bit, and I’d happily eat it every day, but there are a couple of problems. Firstly, there are some people who can’t get their minds around raw fish or, indeed, anything that doesn’t come with fries. And secondly, sushi comes in unsatisfyingly small portions or, if eaten in decent quantity, is ruinously expensive.

It’s easy to see how people can pile on the pounds eating out. There are some very nice restaurants around, but if you want “convenient and reasonably priced” in this area then you end up with a lot of chain restaurants, where the emphasis is on heavy, carb-and-fat dishes, bread, fries, glutinous salad dressings, pizza, pasta and batter. You could blame the restaurants for offering all this shit, but they’re not stupid – they sell what people want to buy. At the end of the day, unless you’re getting your meals through a tube, you’re directly responsible for what you put in your stomach.

Look, I’ve got nothing against fat people per se (“some of my best friends are fat”) but there are degrees of lardiness. Most of us are technically overweight, and are none the worse for it; obsessive food nazis and nutrition weenies can fuck right off – if you want a piece of cake you should have it. But there has to come a point where you figure that you crossed the line. Different people might draw the line in different places – for some of us it might be a pant size, or being able to run after your kids without a sharp pain in your chest, a bright light and the voices of dead relatives in your ears, but regardless of this I’d hope that we could all agree that once you can no longer walk, you should step away from the buffet line and sort your fucking life out.

So why is it that WalMart is so infested with obese fuckers on mobility scooters? Surely the last people who should be riding around on their arses are those fat wankers who can’t walk anymore. This is nature’s way of telling you that you should eat less and GET SOME FUCKING EXERCISE. Rather than pander to their self-inflicted flabbiness and lazy self-indulgence, perhaps we’d be better off if society expected them to get off their fucking backside and walk to the cheesecake aisle.

Don’t give me any of that whiny crap about glands, or heredity, or “I tried dieting”. I don’t want to hear about how it’s not their fault – of course it is. At some point on the path between eight pound baby and six hundred pound bloated lardarse, surely you considered cutting back on the donuts, or maybe going for the occasional walk? No-one did this to you; you were free to slow down at any point. You CANNOT get to be that big without MASSIVE overeating.

But no, society doesn’t just fail to criticize, it has become a blatant enabler of this gross over-consumption. Not only do we accept that fat bastards can now ride through a supermarket, we also classify obesity as a disability, and employment legislation can be used to force companies to buy scooters just so their fatarse employees can ride around instead of doing their job properly. If you want to know why America keeps getting lardier, how about the fact that enabling lardiness has become government policy; I’m only surprised that the stimulus package doesn’t have a special donut credit for anyone over three hundred pounds.

Maybe it would help if fast-food chains were forced to use someone other than skinny teenagers in their commercials. How about the next time Pizza Hut advertises its foot-long, one pound, pizza dough, cheese and meat P’Zone, the person chowing down on it is a four hundred pound balding man with an oxygen tank to assist with his breathing? Or the woman buying the P’Zone rides away from the counter on her mobility scooter? Yeah right.

Copyright © 2009 Edward Bison

Weight Loss

Like so many things, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Someone decided that we should have a weight-loss competition at work, which involved teams of five people seeing how much weight they could lose over a couple of months. When I accepted the invitation to join a team I didn’t really pay much attention to the other members – after all, I wasn’t about to get all psycho about weight loss. Unfortunately what I hadn’t realized was that of the four other team members, three were bone-thin bastards with no weight to lose, and the fourth had already been working hard at it for a month, meaning that I was the only one who was a candidate to lose any weight at all.

Now, I’m no fat bastard, but I could probably lose a few pounds and feel no worse for it. Mrs Bison thinks about ten, which is optimistic. Bison Daughter is expecting me to end up with a six-pack, which is simply ridiculous, but represents a charming show of faith in her old man. It’s not like I’m in this to win it; there are some people in our office who could – how do I say this delicately? – comfortably lose the bodyweight of a good sized dwarf and hardly notice. Nevertheless I at least want to be sure that we’re not the only team to actually get fatter while supposedly trying to lose weight.

So what’s my strategy? “Eat less and exercise more” is a well-established approach, but I already exercise five or six times a week, and I’m buggered if I’m going to go hungry. The thing about lifting weights is that it’s important to ingest a significant amount of protein at regular intervals during the day, so I can’t skip that. The only other time I decided to lose weight I went on a “no pasta, rice, bread or potatoes” regime for a few weeks. (I didn’t cut out cakes or sweets.) It worked well, but I became pissy and irritable for a few days, and the aggravation of having to try and find alternatives to these starches while traveling became a monumental pain in the arse.

This time I’m going to cut back on the carbs again, reducing the starches, avoiding cakes and candy, and adding in fruits and salads to fill the space. I’ve been at this for a few days now and I have to say it’s a fucking pain in the arse. Of course Mrs Bison decided to mark my endeavor by making her famous cherry cake, which I had to refuse, even as she repeatedly taunted me with the offer of a slice. (Does she actually want me to lose any weight?) Tomorrow I’m going to take a salad to work, complete with a can of tuna and hard boiled eggs for protein (which hopefully means I won’t look completely gay).

Obviously this isn’t a diet where I eat less food, only different food. If I was a bloater I might have to reconsider, but I’m only prepared to contemplate minor deprivation in the cause of pointless competition. The problem is that I just discovered Five Guys burgers. There’s a place close to the office and I only got round to trying it just prior to the start of this contest. It was outstanding, no other word for it. Fabulous juicy burger, big pile of tasty fries; fuck me, I can almost taste it now. And yesterday Mrs Bison bought ice cream. Fucking diet…

Maybe there’s a better way. I could just avoid wearing underwear when they weight us in at the end, that should save a few ounces. Have a haircut the day before, leave my car keys at my desk, wear lighter shoes, that sort of thing. On the other hand, Mrs Bison is now watching one of those tiresome period drama Dickens productions on public television. Watching that would bore the shit out of me. If I can only watch long enough, surely significant weight loss is guaranteed?

Copyright © 2009 Edward Bison

Nice Buns

I’ve bumped up against the upper end of my “usual weight range” again, so I was going to cut back on the unhealthy food, honest. But then I woke up to a surprise Father’s Day breakfast which included home-made jammy buns prepared by Bison Daughter without assistance while I was still in bed.


Of course I had to accept, and they were excellent. She started from scratch, with flour and stuff, which explains why the entire kitchen looked like a cocaine factory right after a DEA raid. The old saying goes that “you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs”. Well apparently you can’t make fruity buns without breaking eggs, mixing them with flour, butter and sugar, and smearing the whole lot over every available surface.

But who cares? This was about the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I’ll treasure the memory for years. Which is longer than I’ll treasure the buns – they all went in one day. Bison Daughter helped out by eating half of them. Chip off the old block, that one…

It’s My Glands


I happened to be in the supermarket freezer section a while back, looking for idiot-proof microwavable meals, for reasons that are too dull even for this journal. The whole section basically divided into three categories: pizza, ice cream and diet meals. I didn’t want pizza, already had ice cream and was not about to buy sodding diet meals. The whole premise seems to be that you buy some little overpriced box of “healthy” diet food and, by restricting yourself to dull meals from Weight Watchers or Healthy Options, you magically stop being a fat bastard and lose weight. For any normal human being they are pointless simply because you get fuck all food for the money and need about three boxes for a good meal.

So why is there such a market for this stuff? The commercials all seem to be about “busy women, on the go, with complicated lifestyles, needing nutrition to balance work, life and family”. If the customers spent half as much time balancing their lifestyles as they do in the commercials they wouldn’t have time to eat like a pig and therefore wouldn’t need the product. The real target audience is a lazy cow looking for a magic weight loss solution.

For one thing, if you have any time to spare you’d be better off buying simple ingredients and preparing food yourself. The only possible reason (other than convenience when you’re truly busy) for buying prepared meals in a box is that you don’t trust yourself to eat the right stuff, or the right quantity, if you make your own dinner. But that’s where the whole thing falls down; if you can’t trust yourself not to eat too much when you make dinner then you obviously can’t trust yourself not to have that brownie at the office, or the giant mocca latte, or the burger and fries for lunch.

It’s the same problem that afflicts borrowers who refinance their home to pay off credit card debts; within months they’ve built up new credit card debt to the same level as before and now have a high mortgage payment as well. This is because their spending habits never changed. The “magic solution” of the home equity loan is no different from the hundreds of weight-loss products that promise easy results; it doesn’t work unless you’re prepared to make the tough choices.

You may as well eat what you want – you’ll still be a fat fucker but at least you’ll enjoy your food, and you won’t be shoveling cash to Weight Watchers and all those other parasites. I have friends who are “overweight” because they enjoy eating good food much more than exercising – it’s a choice and I respect it. If you do want to lose weight the recipe is simple – eat less, exercise more. If you haven’t lost weight it’s because you eat too much and don’t exercise enough. Very fucking simple. You don’t need to buy books, join clubs or purchase frozen shit in tiny portions to grasp this concept do you? All you need is willpower. Now I know willpower is hard. I have a bag of 100 Grand bars in the cupboard that are meant for trick or treaters and I could happily eat the fucking lot. I eat candy regularly because I enjoy it. However I don’t expect that I’m going to lose weight doing it.

The bottom line is that if you try and stop doing something that you really enjoy, sooner or later you’re going to crack and go back to it. (Which is, interestingly, why serial killers usually end up getting caught.) So you’d better find a way to eat less of something you enjoy rather than eating crap you hate. The alternative is weight-loss surgery, but this is a bit like achieving celibacy by cutting off your dick. Who needs willpower when you’re physically incapable of the act in question? You’re still a weak-willed wanker, but now you inhabit a surgically altered body. Plus you can’t treat yourself to that double quarter pounder without yakking it all up five minutes later. Nice.

Anyway, I mostly don’t care whether people are overwieght, except when they go so far that they spill over into my seat on the plane or push up my insurance costs; I just wish that all those diet meals weren’t clogging up freezers and taking up space that could be dedicated to frozen chicken madras and Findus crispy pancakes. And don’t complain that “I can’t lose weight, no matter what I do”. It’s all bollocks. Unless you have a giant tapeworm growing inside you, you’re fat because you eat too much. Get over it.

Copyright 2007 Edward Bison