The main reason I go to the gym is so I can continue to make fat jokes.
For whatever reason, it doesn’t seem like fat people are allowed to make fat jokes. It’s strange.
In our modern politically correct world, other groups seem to be enabled to make jokes indigenous to their own kind. Black people can make black jokes, even invoke black epithets, whereas if I ever did so, I’d end up having to praise affirmative action effusively on BET.
The rules seem no different for Jews, or Italians, or even the Polish. What’s frustrating about the Polish is that most of them are good at self-deprecation, yet you never hear them at parties because they’re so busy trying to change light bulbs. See, I’m Polish. I can say that. I can also pass the “Federation of Polish Sportsmen” sign near my office and laugh.
But fat people don’t seem to ever tell fat jokes about themselves. Al Roker chose to name his autobiography “Don’t Make Me Stop this Car,” rather than “Don’t Make Me Eat This Car” or “I Got Thrown Out Of IHOP for Chewing on the Flags.”
Q: Isn’t it possible that they are, but you can’t tell
because their mouths are full? A: That is an unfair stereotype. Most
of the morbidly obese have gotten so used to talking with a mouth
full of food that they can be heard clearly and distinctly even when
pitched face-first into a bowl of borscht.
That leaves only the conclusion that you must be thin to engage in
the inevitable comparisons between your neighbor Fran tripping while
carrying her groceries and the Hindenburg disaster. I have a recurring
nightmare that late one night there’ll be a knock at my door.
Mysterious figure in black: Joke police! Open up!
Me: (opens door) Can I help you?
Figure: Did you recently jump two sizes?
Me: Well, all the companies have different definitions of what-
Figure: (motions to henchmen) Get in there and get all the double entendres. He won’t need them where he’s going.
Me: But my Uncle Hymie really does have a sign that says “Oversize Load” on his ass! He got it in ‘Nam!
Figure: You just don’t know when to keep your mouth shut, do you Tubby.
Me: Tubby?
Figure: Here. (stuffs a Clark bar in my mouth) That’ll keep you quiet.
Me: (unintelligible)
Figure: (picks me up, straining) Jesus! It’s like lifting a Buick! Who insures you, Geico Direct?
Then they take me to a place where there are no fat jokes, which I can only assume is Milwaukee.
To avoid this fate, I go to the gym, a process that is supposed to make me healthier. Thus far, I have seen little evidence of that.
When I move my left shoulder, it hurts. I get three responses when I tell people this.
People who go to the gym: (with a sneer) You must have been doing it wrong.
People who don’t go to the gym: (with an air of superiority) You should stop lifting weights.
Mexican Immigrants: (with a quizzical look) No hablo i?ngles, sen?or.
None of these help me in any way. The gym people seem to think that by virtue of having muscles, they also developed a superior intelligence. As any casual observer of the Popeye cartoon will tell you, this is not the case.
Being told that I’m “lifting” in the wrong way is irritating on its face. Prior to working out in the gym, I have, in fact, lifted other things. Conceivably, I would simply take this knowledge and apply it to the dumbbell.
Of course, they are full of advice on how to lift properly, as if the process was a scientific endeavor, rather than a basic human ability. “Lift with your knees,” they’ll say. Of course. Lift with your knees. And while you’re at it, have sex with your elbows. Both are impossible, and can contribute to early termination of a relationship.
The other exercises are no better. The prevailing view that those who work out all the time are on a intellectual plane equivalent to some of your lesser eggplants comes from the fact that they are perfectly satisfied running or bicycling on machines that TAKE YOU NOWHERE. In fact, they’re proud if doing so.
Out of breath friend: I ran for nine miles in only a half an hour!
Me: But you’re still here!
Friend: Yes! But look how worn out I am!
This comes from a very different definition of the positives of sweating. For me sweat, like locusts, is something to be avoided unless absolutely necessary.
Of course, the claim is that after a while, you get “Runner’s High.” This is one of those phrases you can tell right off was made up by the delusional, like “Special Olympics,” “Leper’s Charisma” or “People with Plague do it better.”
The alternative to staying thin would be an eating disorder, but it seems I haven’t been subjected to enough of the media images to hate my body. My body is not my enemy, nor is it my friend. It’s more like a relative that you know you’re going to run into at certain occasions. You have to acknowledge it or there’ll be hell to pay, but you certainly don’t linger.
In the meantime, I’ll continue to fight the good
fight, if for no other reason than to be able to gesture to someone
with their own area code in a video store and whisper to my girlfriend,
“I hope he knows they’re not chewable,” while she
looks around desperately for someone nice and muscular to date.
Full Line Home-Health Care Services
NEKOS
Red Hook Drug Store
(845) 758-5057
9:00-7:00 M-F PETER NEKOS
9:00-6:00 Sat. 7501 N. Broadway
Closed Sun. Red Hook, NY 12571
