Lifestyles of the fat and sweaty.

Don’t touch me. Don’t speak to me. Don’t even walk within my four-foot perimeter. I just spent the entire day hurtling down the road in a 100-degree hotbox with a co-worker. No a/c. No open windows. No mercy. And let’s just say I’m a tad bit testy.

As I sat there, with droplets of sweat plummeting down the peaks and valleys of my backfat, the seatbelt was working overtime, doing its damndest to strangle me. It was a treacherous bitch, this seatbelt, reeling in and locking whenever I gave it a little slack. At one point, I made the mistake of leaning back in my seat, allowing the belt to completely retract into its housing.

So there I was, stuck in this ridiculous recline position, unable to lift my head from the headrest without crushing my larnyx. Did my co-worker see the struggle ensuing in the passenger seat? I determined that no, he did not. For if he caught even so much as a glimpse of me, I’m quite confident he would’ve pulled the car over, put a pencil in my mouth and called 911.

Now, any normal person would’ve undone the seat belt, pulled it out and simply repositioned it. But no, not me. I was all self-conscious, worried that maybe I had stretched the seat belt to its limits. I silently wondered if the seatbelt did this to all who occupied the passenger seat. I concluded that no, it didn’t. This here was just one more example of how the engineers of the world plot and plan to make us fat fucks suffer.

Car talk.

I have to carpool with a co-worker to an offsite meeting today. As we were talking about driving arrangements, I asked her if she wanted to drive. She was all like, “I don’t know. My car is REALLY SMALL. Like knees-in-the-dashboard small. When I ride with my dad or even my boyfriend, we are like on top of each other practically.”

OK bitch. Code breakin’ time. What you’re really trying to say is that I AM TOO FAT FOR YOUR PIECE-OF-SHIT SATURN. Jesus. I may be fat, but I’m not a goddamned circus freak. I FIT in cars already.

Couldn’t she have said that her transmission is on the fritz, or that the oil is leaking? Christ. Sure, I’ll drive. But I can tell you right now that I’m pushing the passenger seat all the way to the dashboard, so that Little Miss Honesty is in the birthing postion for the entire two-hour ride. Speed bumps take on a whole new dimension when your snootch is pressed up against the frosty windshield like a suction-cup Garfield.

Let’s make a deal, lady. You don’t get all up in my bizness about my weight, and I’ll refrain from singing the theme from “Yentl” when you and your Streisandesque schnoz enter the room.

Big ups to the Duggars.

Every time TLC airs their documentary on the Duggars, untitledlife gets a wave of hits from Google. So let’s all take a moment to thank god for Michelle Duggar’s ever-blossoming uterus. Praise BE!

Some of these new visitors are Duggar supporters, so I can imagine the toes curling when they stumble across my posts on cockrings, poop etiquette and my tampon-eating dog. I have no idea who these people are or where they live, but I imagine them all in calico dresses and braids. One of the commenters wrote me a nastygram and DECIDED TO SHOUT HER ENTIRE POST. Jesus fuck, lady. That’s pretty much the equivalent of grabbing me by the throat and shitting down my neck. Not very Christian of you. But on the positive side, it gives me comfort knowing you broke a commandment (or at least came damn close) in my name.

Seriously, I enjoy reading dissenting opinions, in the same way I enjoy listening to Rush Limbaugh. But I do feel an ethical responsibility to repeat the obvious — having 16 children is wrong on so many levels. Environmentally, you are taking more than your fair share of earthly resources. Plus, it is not humanly possible for two people to properly care for all of the physical and emotional needs of 16 children. I have one child, and there are many times when I feel like I could be doing more for him, if only there was more time. I don’t care how peachy things look like in the documentary. Inevitably, things will fall through the cracks — which is exactly how the Duggars got themselves into this situation to begin with.

Open letter to the Outbreak Monkey.

What is it with people refusing to stay at home when they are sick? I mean, GODDAMN, people.

Last week, the Diet Coke Bandit insisted on coming to work regardless of the fact that she was packing the black death. Since I grew up in a household with two smoking parents, the slightest cold sends me on a journey into the Shadow of Death. This last week, I spent a total of three full days on my sofa in a viral-fueled hallucination, coughing out husky reditions of Salman Rushdie’s “Satanic Verses.”

But what really pisses me off is the fact that I can’t talk in anything but a whisper, lest I break out in uncontrollable hacks. I can’t taste food, not even hot wings, which is a goddamn shame. And I pee my pants just a little bit every hour, on the hour, due to the sheer force of my coughing. In fact, I’m feeling a little trickle right now. Or is that an air bubble. Fuck. Me.

Following each indignity, I find myself cursing the name of DCB. Given the depths of my discomfort, I have made a conscious decision to sully DCB’s name until her dying day. Or mine. Whichever comes first. And since the lung I just coughed up is lying in repose on top of my keyboard in a heaving, steaming pile, it seems I’ve only got a few more minutes to say my peace.

First off, there is no shame in staying home from work when you are sick. It’s not considered cutting or ditching when you’re protecting the rest of us from your nastiness. On the contrary, it is a show of respect for your co-workers and their spouses and their kids and all the little minions at daycare whose soft pink lungs would be far better off without infected green loogies hanging like unripe bananas off the branches of their bronchii. But since my outrage is brutally outweighed by my amiable nature and wussiness in general, tomorrow will find me silent at my desk. But make no mistake — I WILL find the time to commando my way to the mailroom and wipe my sticky kleenex all over her mailbox when she’s not looking. Take that, beotch.

Crypt Keeper gives birth.

A 62-year old great-grandmother from California named Janise Wulf has just given birth — that’s right, birth — to her 12th child.

I wonder how hard it was to find a fertility doctor who saw no ethical problem with a women being able to collect Medicare and the child tax credit at the same time. She says that she wanted this child so that her 3-year old would have a sibling, which, I must say, isn’t a bad idea. That poor child can’t possibly tune up mommy’s Rascal and mix her Metamucil all on his own.

As you can see in this photo, she’s got that crazy I-got-more-children-than-fingers hairdo going on, much like Mrs. Duggar. I can only imagine what she was about to say when photogs snapped this photo.

Crypt Keeper/Great Grandmother/Grandmother/Mother

“Ooooh! Tooth Fairy gonna be broke! Baby be cuttin’ teeth… and I be losin’ them.”

“We’re only having one in diapers in this household, which means we best commence with potty-training right about now.”

“At least I won’t have to go out and buy more bibs.”

So yes, lady, congratufuckinglations. You proved it could be done. Too bad you didn’t give any thought to the fact that more than likely, you will be dead before this child can drive.