On 4 May 2011, author Amy Farrell appeared on The Colbert Report to tout her book Fat Shame: Stigma and the Fat Body in American Culture.
|The Colbert Report||Mon – Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c|
Humorless creatures like her are one of the reasons I find myself slowly veering away from the left as I tack years on. Her whole thesis is that we should not be so mean to fat people because, golly, they’re people too. She has the gall to compare the shame and hurt felt by fat people to the racial problems felt by black people in the middle of the last century when she identifies the anti-fat culture as a “civil rights” issue. I hate to break it to you, Amy, but black people didn’t become black because they ordered too many Supreme Africa Meals from Black Hut. That shit is genetics. Fat people, by contrast, eat their feelings and a lot of complex carbohydrates. How do I know? I have a fucking mirror, a credit card statement, and a pile of pizza boxes that all tell the same story, you idiot.
Amy defends her position by saying that fat people are just, you know, another size of person, and that there should be no stigma attached to them. Let’s put aside the fact that fat people are gross to look at and touch. You’re not a BBW: you’re nasty. No one with any kind of social options WANTS to lick peanut butter out of the dimples of cellulite on the back of your thighs. No one wants to map a fantasy terrain with the webwork of varicose veins. No one wants to duck from sniper fire in your stretch marks. No, let’s put all that aside in the name of compassion and basic courtesy. The obesity epidemic in America is a health hazard and economic anchor. As the rate of obesity has risen, so has the rate of diabetes and heart disease. Those people need healthcare, and that costs money.
Farrell claims this is not the case. Fat people do NOT drain the coffers of society and fill hospital beds. When you wheeze and sweat gravy running up two flights of stairs you are totally healthy! I imagine she spends a good bit of time in her book defending her goddamned ridiculous position. I cannot WAIT to examine the thing.
I try not to use this magical space to tell war stories. I wish I could say I refrain because I think it’s tacky, but that is a lie. A girl found my old blog, popped my heart in my chest, and prevented all of you from living vicariously through my dick (aka The Ruiner®©). Amy has forced me to break that rule to tell you about the one time I got slapped doing cold approaches in a bar.
Sinn, Savoy, and I were celebrating Savoy’s birthday at Pure in Las Vegas with healthy heaps of alcohol served under the gentle shadow of a cabana. How’s the view, poor people? As if reading our minds and/or the tents pitched in our pants, the security guy (who chose to be black, according to Amy “Doesn’t Get Enough Anal” Farrell) informed us that we merely had to request women, and he would lasso them toward our table. Only felons like to open, so we agreed. Soon enough our table was teeming with women (aka bitches). One of them was a sexy blonde whom Savoy was hitting on. Things were not going according to plan, however, because the girl brought with her a.) her boyfriend and b.) the creature from Cloverfield when the security guy yanked her over. No one wanted to have little Cloverfield babies, so I politely asked them to leave. (Literally: “You’re going to have to leave and take your fat friend with you.”) at which point the she-beast with the hot friend began to bellow in that language that only gravy understands. I looked at her with an expression that was a mixture of sympathy and an admiration for the body’s capacity to reinforce itself against starvation. Mustering all pity, I spat the following little gem:
“Don’t get mad at me just because you’ve never turned down a piece of chicken in your life.”
The beast’s face was, as you can imagine, nonplussed. If fat people had souls, I think she would have started crying. The birthday party continued, and Future marched into the sea of bodies to find more breasted companions for his friends. Then I felt a (suspiciously moist) tap on my shoulder. I turned.
A hand like a slice of ham slapped against my face. Somewhere in the night a vegetarian vomited without knowing why. “You can’t talk to people like that! You don’t get to say that to people!” she have screamed, half-squealed as the security staff did what Las Vegas security folks do and emerged in groups of six to (presumably) haul her off to fatty jail, where she can only eat air fries or her own fingers. As she tried to convince the staff that my words hurt her enormous heart more than her pizza shovel hurt my cheek, I said, “It looks like I can! Two words, princess: portion control!”
If you’ve seen me in the last few years, you know that I have struggled with my weight. Sure, I’m not Snooki fat, but I’m no Braddock, no Daxx, no Mr. M. The former two hired a fucking Navy SEAL to force them to run up stairs. I refused to move into a new building until I knew for absolute fucking certain it had an elevator. I’ve dealt with a number of diets and exercise programs over the years. I was a competitive swimmer in high school, and I kept eating like that after I quit swimming 13,000 yards a day. Surprisingly I was a “diet tray” or “fat body” in Marine boot camp. I ate like I was running 20 miles a week when I started at NYU, and my body reacted accordingly. Last Halloween, as I was walking to a party, a New Yorker shouted, “Spider-Man’s not fat!” as I walked past. Why? Because Spider-Man’s not fucking fat.
Why was I a fatass for so long? Why are Americans so fat? Why did the gravy train in the story above weigh as much as the Eagles’ offensive line? Self-control. Eating past the point of being full. Kneeling before a sense of deliciousness artificially induced at McDonalds and Monsanto. Laziness on the part of our/their parents. But finally you can’t draw a line between an involuntary action like breathing and the 2oz curl that lifts an Oreo to your mouth.
I lost 30 lbs this year thanks to the Paleo Diet. A former student bought me P90X (P. TO THE FUCKING S. ALL STUDENTS SHOULD BUY ME GIFTS, OR YOU’LL NEVER EVER GET LAID AGAIN. SO SAY WE ALL.). Students at the Advanced Playboy Mansion Super Workshop saw the new me, and hopefully I’ll look even better when the clear thinking badasses who attend the Super Conference see me. But you know how it happened? I got off my ass and started exercising. I started eating well, eating natural foods, restricting my intake of horrifically unhealthy foods. I took responsibility for my food intake and stopped mocking my mortality.
So fuck you, Amy Farrell. Fuck you for trying so hard to be sensitive that you end up doing more harm than good. Congratulations: your life’s work of late has been a sham.
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