Like lots of men, I have this one woman in my office who I spend way too much time thinking about. Her name is Theresa and she fascinates me. She eats nothing but health bars and salad, runs ten miles a day and regularly encourages me to do the same. I constantly find myself wondering what she’s doing when she’s not in the office. Why does this woman continue to flood my thoughts? Nothing makes sense. I can’t get her out of my mind. I am perplexed. How can somebody who runs ten miles a day and eats only salad be such an overweight fat disgusting pig?.
Does she really think we’re that stupid? Once my portly friend leaves here with her “gym bag” (full of Ring Dings and Ho-Ho’s), I’m pretty sure the only running she’s doing is after the ice cream truck. Why live the lie? What’s the point? I tried looking her up to see if she had a Myspace profile and get a handle on how deep her delusions ran. Since I couldn’t find one, I can only assume they didn’t have any spaces big enough.
You haven’t seen miserable until you’ve seen Theresa grazing on her daily salad. She looks like she’s in pain – like every single tooth in her toilet bowl sized mouth hurts. WTF! And you know damn well if she were home, she’d have her fat ass on the couch with 5 scoops of Chunky Monkey buried in peanut butter sauce and smothered in whip cream. The only way this lump would take down a salad when nobody was looking would be if it were covered in Magic Shell. I don’t mean to sound harsh but you’d think the same way if you saw the size off her dumper.
I don’t care if your skinny, fat, tall, short, smart or dumb as rocks… just keep it to yourself. But since I seem to be a lunatic magnet, that’s not the way my world works. It’s like moths to a flame. When she’s not hiding behind the copying machine choking down sleeves of Thin Mints, she has the audacity to criticize my eating habits. Are you fucking kidding me? “You know… you eat eggs sandwiches a lot. Too many eggs aren’t good for you.” Excuse me? You’re kidding me right? I don’t ask for much in life, but one thing I do ask is that you just leave me alone. News Flash… You’re not big boned – you’re fat. Very fat. I’m not sure what you’ve heard but the expression is, “You are what you eat” and NOT, “You are what you eat in the office.” You’re like a doctor who doesn’t believe in medicine or Greenpeace logger… shut up and go eat another stick of butter.
She’s a magician. She’s never eating but always chewing. It’s mysterious. Even if you happen to walk by her in the hall as she’s walking out of the women’s room. She’s chewing something and has to swallow in order to talk to you. I honestly believe she’s sitting on the John with her over-the-shoulder feed bag open and filled with munchkins, just shoving them in her fat face one after the other. I like to wait till I see her chewing before I engage her in conversation. Lots of times she fakes a cough while she tries to force down the Butterfinger lodged in her fat throat. And I think that Starbucks cup she’s always sipping from is filled with eggnog. What else could explain such girth?
I feel bad for Theresa (OK not really), but she’s got such a delusional eating disorder that Kristie Alley would find it entertaining. What does she think? Some normal good-looking dude is going to be like “Wow- you take such good care of yourself!”… “You’re so disciplined”…. give me a break. Sooner or later Romeo will smell the Twinkies on your breath or open his eyes and begin to wonder… “Is that chocolate on the corner of your mouth?”…. “Why do you weigh 50 pounds more than I do?” and “Why do I keep finding hoagie wrappers under the bathroom sink?”… Hellooooo? This isn’t Facebook – we can see you.
Stop waiting for Shallow Hal , he doesn’t exist. Either be yourself, shed 50 pounds or go lesbian, but whatever you choose leave me alone and don’t tell me what to eat.
-Dopey
