An Apology, dear "J" Readers

Dear Readers,
I am issuing this press release today in order to admit something horribly embarrassing to all of you. You've all been faithful readers and fans for years now, and it has come to my attention that I need to acknowledge that I am fat. Yes, while I am still phat with a PH, I am also fat in the blubbery sort of way. Not John Goodman fat - I'm not going to eat 2 Hutterite chickens for breakfast or anything - nothing like that. I am not Dom Delouise fat either, where I would pick Old Dutch wrappers out of the gutter and lick them clean. I don't think I'm Drew Carey fat either - bitch should spin that wheel himself or run up the aisle once in a while, in my humble opinion. I am definitely not King of Queens fat, although if I was forced to work with that nattering snotty bitch Leah Rimminy all day, year in, year out, well, I too would be 350 lbs. Either that or hooked on pills. Perhaps I am John Travolta fat, back when he was fatter, although I am not tall like him. Nor am I a pilot, Scientologist, or involved in 3-ways games with Tom Cruise and Kirstie Alley. I guess I am sort of Demi Moore pregnant-fat, back when she posed for Vanity Fair, but my gut isn't that big. I just don't know. Hollywood doesn't really have the equivilent for the likes of me. No, I do not see my body type in the media. When will there ever be a movie staring my lookalike and some Hollywood siren, where she chases after me and boils my rabbits? Or when will I find my people in Cologne ads? Shouldn't I be draped across a bed, undoing my cufflinks, as Iman looks down on me in her evening gown, dripping candle wax all over the bed? Or when will I be chosen as an underwear model? Shouldn't I be in a two page spread in the magazines, in my gitch, with a leg up, mountains behind me, mountain bike at my side, holding my stomach in with my one hand so my impressive package can be seen by all? Well, I don't see it happening. No, there is no room for me in the media. And it all comes down to my realization that I am indeed fat again. How did I let that happen? I am so mad at myself. Even after my personal chef, Daisy, wrote that bestselling (in Thunder Bay) cookbook "Cooking with Daisy", chock full of easy to make recipes for the average joe, such as pressure-cooked partridge, Baby Bib lettuce and truffle salad, and seal stew, I was still having trouble sticking with the program. So when I hired my personal trainer, Al Waxman, I knew I had to be dedicated. Sadly, Al passed on right away, quicker than that Pope that came before the Polish one (the one who lasted 28 days or whatever), and I was on my own. Oh sure, I've been up and down in weight, but when I looked back at the cover of the February 2000 issue of my magazine "J", well, I realized I couldn't fit into those acid wash jeans and Hypercolor t-shirt at all anymore. Even though my beloved wife Steadmina says it doesn't bother her that I am no longer marching through the streets of town pulling that wagon of back-bacon that symbolized both the weight I had lost and the many lives of pigs that were saved since I stopped eating all that bacon, I know that it bothers her deep down since she pulls away from me in intimate moments. I am sure it has nothing to do with the fact that our 27 cocker spaniels are shitting all over the bed, whilst I am kissing them on the lips. Nor do I think it has anything to do with my best friend, Gail (we call Larry by his last name because he is the last of the Gail lineage), who makes love with me while we go on road trips in search of the perfect hamburger - OOPS, I mean, "TRAVELS WITH ME" not "MAKES LOVE". I've tried to get my personal decorator, Nate (her real name is Mindy, but i call her Nate because she played Natalie on The Facts of Life") to spuce up our home so Steadmina will feel like we are making a fresh start, but that damned Jysk patio furniture she picked out for our house keeps breaking. I've even had our financial advisor Suze (I call her Suze because she hates to be identified as Sue, after she appeared on Survivor and tried to sue her nemesis Richard Hatch) over to try and see if we can afford a trip, but she's not sure we can. Or at least we think that's what she's yelling at us in hillbilly - we're scared of her and don't ask questions. I thought about asking our Doctor, Mahmet, about weight loss strategies, but it takes 3 months to get an appointment, and he is also currently visiting his family back in South Africa. Finally, I asked my friend Dr. Angelou about what to do about my weight gain, since she is indeed the actual Dr. Angelou, but alas, she just rambled on something about freedom and the benediction of the morning, and rising suns and tides and silence and God knows what, so I just nodded and smiled and rolled my eyes.
So that leads me here, dear reader. Fed up and fat, 20 years later. Again, I am saddened and embarassed. I promise, I will never speak of my faulty thyroid again. Now, back to my plate of potatoes.....