My wife is fat. My kid is fat. My wife cries that the kid takes after her. That takes the pressure off me. Ha. They were both crying this morning, the first "weigh in" after their (eating?) trip to the West Coast. I didn't know what to say. It's like that scene in Terminator I when Schwarzie's character sees his inner video monitor as it goes through possible responses. "What the fuck do I care?" No. "Shut up, you fat baby!" No. (Silence). Yes, silence is best. I retreat to the garage, the dog follows, she knows how to escape human temper tantrums almost as much as I do. Ha. "What's so bad about being fat?" Maybe. I could say that. There's a lot of good things about being fat. For one, you don't have to wonder what people think of you. You know. They think you're a fat, ugly slob and many of them think you should die. Some of them think you should be tortured (ala Abu Ghraib, only with food-based humiliations, I'm sure you can picture it). Thin and mean, the world is, I want to tell him, reversing my nouns and verbs like a fat Yoda.
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