All I did was get out of the shower. Sifu’s face appeared at the bathroom door as I was hauling my naked girth out, and his eyes lit up.
Sifu: Well look at you. My big hot pregnant wife.
Sifu: You look incredible. My great big sexy pregnant wife.
BIOU: Are you flattering me? I can’t tell.
Sifu: You’re small everywhere but in that huge belly. Damn you are hot.
BIOU: Still can’t tell if this is complimentary or not.
Sifu: By this time next month you’re going to look like a battleship.
Sifu: Right now you’re just an aircraft carrier.
BIOU: Aw, fuck you.
Sifu: Yeah! Let’s do it.
BIOU: You want to do it with an aircraft carrier.
Sifu: You are MY aircraft carrier.
BIOU: The baby can hear you.
Sifu: Then she knows I love her mama. Her great big gigantic belly having sexy mother in a towel.
And that’s how you score with a pregnant chick. If you’re of a mind to.
This week, I had a Pants Emergency.
I’m only telling you guys this stuff so you can laugh WITH me. If I hear one of you motherfuckers laughing AT me, heads are gonna roll.
So, it’s no secret that I’m blimpin’ up around the middle. I’m closing in on 8 months into the gestating process, and I’m proud that I haven’t whaled out in every direction, but there’s no denying what’s going on in my ab region. A man offered me his seat on the bus recently. Of course, before I could take it, another man shoved me out of the way and dropped his own ass into it, so before you go thinking that chivalry is not dead, consider the second man.
I’m wearing these magical fat pregnant pants to w*rk, to accomodate my round stomach. I tear those suckers off the second I walk in the door at home because fuck pants, but out in the world, I’m required to cover my ass by ignorant people who don’t want to know how awesome my ass is.
I’m wearing these magical fat pants to w*rk, which consist of regular looking pant legs, to keep the mystique of business-like trousers in play, but check this out, when they get to the part that goes under your shirt, WHAM!
They are like elastic sweatpants under there.
WHAT! Where have these things been all my life?
I’ve been donning these magical fat pants since the middle of the second trimester. Even though I could still wear regular pants, they were pinchy and I disliked the idea of Little13 getting a crease in her head due to unnecessary waist restriction.
I bought a pile of the things, figured I was all set for pants, and went on with my life. The minimalist in me eschews excess, particularly in stupid things that nobody enjoys like fat pants, so I didn’t go crazy. Just enough to get me by. I was the unnamed protagonist of Fight Club. I figured I had that pants angle covered. The first rule of Fat Club is you do not talk about Fat Club.
On Wednesday, I extracted my last clean pair of fat pants from the closet, to find that my uber comfortable supreme bliss fat pants were now officially THE MOST UNCOMFORTABLE PANTS ON THE PLANET. Apparently Little13 has repositioned in such a way that human pants come up to the exact least bendable area on my torso and the only pants I had to wear to w*rk were grinding vice torture wreckers.
I had no choice. I wore the hell p*nts.
By noon, I was homicidal.
A co-w*rker saw me squirming. “What’s up with you? Why are you sitting all the way back in your chair like that?”
"FUCKING P*NTS" was all I could say.
"Ugh, what are you gonna do?"
"I’m gonna stab somebody in the face," I explained. "Not you." It’s important to specify that from a human resources perspective.
"You know, there’s a maternity store somewhere around here. You could probably get some new…"
But I didn’t hear the end of her sentence, because I was already on the elevator, making a beeline for Fat Pregnant Pants Shoppe, Ltd.
At the fat pregnant pants store, the salespeople are all very sympathetic ladies. “How may I help you?” asked a lovely young skinny woman in normal pants.
"I am having a pants emergency," I said to this total stranger. I have no couth.
She was nonplussed. “What kind of emergency?”
I could only wince and pantomime bending over while pointing to the waist area of my torture pants. “I see,” she said. “Please have a seat. You look like a size small. (!!!) I’ll be right back with some pants. Would you like some juice?”
I declined juice (forbidden). “How about some cookies or water or something?” She was an angel. I did not accept the cookies or water, but it felt nice to be treated like I was five again. I waited in a very large, plush, fat lady chair.
While I sat, I watched several girls in their early twenties shopping with their mothers. They tried on prosthetic bellies under glittering club shirts and pleather leggings. They oohed and aahed over maternity short-shorts while sporting strap-on stomachs. The store supplies these things so you can shop ahead. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that by the time their bellies were that big, it would be too cold for short-shorts. None of my business. Also, get your silly ass out of the club at this point. Honestly now.
The saleswoman returned with some ridiculous looking pants.
I tried them on and had about fourteen orgasms in the fitting room. I bought them in every color.
So now it’s Friday and I’ve been wearing my collection of ridiculous pants for a couple of days now. The ladies who work in pregnancy pants stores are so loving and attentive. They asked for my mailing address so they could send me a bunch of shit in the mail, and I was so in love with them I provided it. “Oh, are you (my mother-in-law)?”
"No," I said. "That is my mother-in-law. She lives downstairs from me."
"Oh! Well she’s registered on our mailing list as well!"
Why is my mother-in-law registered with the fat pregnant pants store? She’s really taking her role in this thing to a strange new level.
Of course there is one important fact to be gleaned from all of this, the reason this is a post about perspectives and not just some stupid story about how I’m too disgusting to wear earth clothes anymore. This is a story that goes from tragic discomfort to blissful glee. It took only a stupid amount of money to achieve that kind of happiness, but even that is not what I want to talk about today.
Turns out I really *am* a “small”.
I wear the smallest size of Fatty Pants.
Happy Friday, Idiots.
Comment of the Day: “I don’t understand fashion. But I do know that most of my jeans are not fashionable because the waist goes all the way up to the waist.” - Carolyn
Weinerdog: What’s that you have there? Beetus ice cream?
BIOU: Yes. I have a sore throat.
Weinerdog: I don’t have any ice cream.
BIOU: Of course you don’t. You are a dog. Dogs don’t eat ice cream.
Weinerdog: That’s true. We eat whatever the master deems fit to give us.
BIOU: As it should be.
Weinerdog: What’s that, fatty?
Weinerdog: Nothing. You’re just very fat. It was distracting me from what you were saying, because the fat folds of your big fat mouth produce such a confusing, flapping noise when you talk.
BIOU: What are you trying to say?
Weinerdog: OINK OINK OINK.
BIOU: I don’t care for your tone.
Weinerdog: What? You don’t care to be toned?
BIOU: I said I don’t like your attitude.
Weinerdog: You suffer from fattitude?
BIOU: I do not appreciate your implication.
Weinerdog: Your ass is as big as a billboard? What’s that you say? SPEAK CLEARLY, IF IT DOESN’T TAX YOU, HUMAN HOG WOMAN.
BIOU: Here, eat my ice cream.
Weinerdog: Thank you, mommy, beautiful perfect mommy!
I am crude and unpleasant. I alienate people I love, holding them to standards they never asked to be held to. I am a neat freak who wipes the crumbs out from under Sifu as he is still eating, I dominate conversations and I laugh too fast and too loud and at the wrong times, and I’m too skeptical of things like cheese commercials, yet eager to believe in aliens and hypnosis, and deliberately ignorant of important matters like what “HMOs” are and where the Czech Republic is located, and I’m surly and pessimistic and self-absorbed and I obsess over the gross and unseemly, and I subject Simian Idiot readers to interminable run on sentences…but in spite of all these things, and many more I forgot to mention, I still do try to be a good person. Really.
I don’t always succeed, but I try.
In this politically correct world, there are a few groups that are still acceptable to make fun of - the unapologetically goofy caucasian, the elderly, the overweight, the insane. As an unapologetically goofy caucasian, I’m okay with the first one. You can’t laugh at everyone else if you won’t laugh at yourself, and I WILL laugh at everyone else, so you can have at me. I like camping and I can’t dance. The stereotypes are true.
I’ve been overweight. Briefly. No sooner did I cross the line into mild porker territory than Wilford Brimley punched me in my fat face and shoved a box of testing supplies up my big ass. I was fat for about five minutes. Some people eat sticks of butter every day for years and Brimley never puts it to them but that’s just my luck. I’m small again, doctor’s orders.
If my unlucky streak continues, some day I’ll be elderly. I’m not looking forward to it. The elderly take our mockery for their cluelessness, their stubbornness, their insufferable tendency to NEED. Which is bullshit.
I love old people. Like every demographic, there are some real motherfuckers among them but in general I find them smarter, tougher, and funnier than their young counterparts. Getting old is not for the weak, and they ache in places we young snots don’t even know we have yet. If they appear to be laughably out of touch, it’s probably because they just don’t give a fuck about what you’re interested in. What do you know? Nothing.
I’ve never met a sociopath I didn’t want to fix. My compulsion to deal with people who are interesting has put me in the path of many tornadoes of self-destruction, because interesting people are frequently broken, and I have truly and utterly loved these calamities. Every one of them. It is always an error in judgment to let someone like this into your life, and I’d go to the ends of the earth to stop people I care about from entering into the types of friendships I’ve willingly and knowingly danced into myself. I’m trying to learn from these mistakes, but I can’t help it. I’d rather be tormented than bored.
I’m never going to clean up my language or cease my fascination with horrible things. The day that happens I will cease to be me and resume life as a total stranger to myself. But still, I try to be good.
Please forgive me if I fail.