How to Be Fat

A funny thing happened on the way to early retirement.

Not funny ha ha.

Funny *sigh*.

It happened during our Once-in-Lifetime Familpolooza Holiday to Africa.

It seemed like it happened overnight. But in truth, the seeds were sown weeks before.

The Inversion 

You see, Mr Beer had pushed his way back into my life (truth be told he was given a hero’s homecoming). Which meant Mr Gym had to pack his bags and leave town. Which created guilt, which resulted in ice cream binging, which… you get the picture. 

Then came the Africa holiday with its bottomless buffets and sunset drinks beginning at noon.

Finally, in the tale of the tape, it happened:

For the first time in my life my belly measurement was greater than my chest measurement.

The inversion was complete. 

How to Be Fat 

I’d like to cue the Rocky music now and cut to footage of me fist fighting cow carcasses and running up the stairs of Parliament House. 

Generation X Content Rocky Theme

But, alas, the inversion persists. And there are deep felt concerns that it is here to stay.


The realisation hit me like a slap in the face with a bag of lard: I was fat.

I’d never been fat before. Random, anxious questions flitted around my brain.

Is this belly here to stay?

Will it keep growing?

Should I decorate it? 


I stood on the scales again.

Once more the needle rocketed through the smug green ‘Healthy’ range, past the yellow ‘Time to lay off the Oreos’ section and finally slowed toward the wrong end of the orange ‘Dude! Stop putting shit in your mouth’ zone.

It couldn’t be true, I thought, as I opened the laundry door and threw the scales onto the pavers outside.

Thankfully, this readjustment fixed the scales. And after I found the needle, placed it rightfully on the green range and stepped onto what remained of the scales, the needle stayed in the correct position.



I slapped it. Once. Hard. To see if it would fight back.

It just sat there, though. Wobbling. 

“Gooooo!” I yelled. “Leave me, you portly, porkacious pudge.”

I punched it right between the eyes (the ones I’d drawn on my expansive belly earlier that day in an attempt to humanise the beast). That only made it angry.

Generation X content jelly belly
Simulation of my Jelly Belly. Mesmerising, isn’t it.

I threw myself on the floor, big fat belly first, to crush the beast and show it who’s boss. I bounced.

Another first. 


“Okay Jelly Belly,” I said, “Now, I don’t like you and you don’t like me, but we’re in this together”. 

“Here’s the deal: Go quietly, without any trouble. Relocate to my chest and form two chiseled pecs. Or else I’m going to liposuction you out and turn you into medical waste.” 

It stared back me. And demanded chicken.


As my gaze fell upon the remnants of the southern-fried chicken dinner – now debris strewn among the foothills of my mountainous mid-section – a wave of guilt overcame me.

‘How many chickens died to feed this insatiable proturance before me?’ I lamented.  A single tear rolled down my cheek.

Then I remembered they’re just chickens.

And that it was dessert time.     


I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a grown man cry into an empty bowl, smeared with the remnants of a Cosco double-choc, caramel swirl dinosaur cake?

It’s not pretty.

They say alcoholics need to hit rock bottom before they can turn their lives around. Well, that night, I bottomed out.

In my despair I searched and found the resolve and determination to turn my life around and… Just kidding. Actually, my massive man-mound and I just moved on to the next phase. 


We are happy now. Bellyhemoth and I.

We accept each other.

Sure he hogs the bed sheets and won’t let me see my toes anymore, but we have made our peace.

He’s part of my life.

Part of the family


How to be Content

Me: Say, Jelly Belly, of all the people in the world, why did you choose me?

Jelly Belly: The Belly doesn’t choose anyone. It is the one that is chosen.

Me: Do you mean, I chose you, oh blubbery one?

Jelly Belly: When he is ready, the Belly will come. And when the Belly cometh, you will be as one.

Me: What the fuck, Belly, that’s bullshit. You’re just saying some vague motherhood statement then reversing it to sound prophetic. 

Jelly Belly: Alright, alright, sorry. Jees. 

Me: Dude.

Jelly Belly:  Okay, what I mean to say is that if all you’re worried about is some growth around the girth, then doesn’t that say something in itself?

Me: That I eat too much?

Jelly Belly: No, my porky vacuous one, perhaps it means you’re more content than you think. 

Me: Happy fat? Gee, thanks Jelly. You’re the best.

Jelly Belly: No probs, dough boy. 

Jelly Belly: Oh, one last thing.

Me: Yes, Belly.


Me: Yes, Jelly Belly.

What next?

Feeling guilty too? Check out this post on tricking your brain into exercising. Yes, I’m going to read to it too…

Or if you just want a good laugh while stuffing down some Oreos, take a look at which generation would win a Zombie War.


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