Friday, 8 June 2012

Fat, Forty-Something & Useless

My only friend in life, Tony, has spent all week considering the benefits of a crash diet, as he struggles to keep his expanding waistline under control.
He reckons that his love of fast-food and are all to blame for making him the fattest man in London. I told him, to make him feel better, that he comes from a family of overweight layabouts, and that his obesity is a result of inheriting his father's genes, and that although a diet would be a good idea, the fat bastard has got about as much chance of losing a few pounds, as I have in walking on the moon.
The other day he took time to read a blog written by an anorexic woman, who claimed that she ate only one lettuce leaf and half a tomato a day.
Tony chuckled at that, and said that he once thought about becoming anorexic, but fortunately he saw the light, and devoted his life to double cheeseburgers, pizza, lager, whisky, peanuts, chocolate bars, hot-dogs, ice-cream, bacon sandwiches and anything else that keeps his spirits high, and makes him the fat, jolly boy that he is.
I can't really blame him, and although he's now too fat to get a job, as he rightly says, it's better to be fat and out of work, than thin and in permanent employment.
Now, I know I've said it once before - but I'll say it again: I'LL DRINK TO THAT!

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