Bob (jealous of someone eating big while staying shredded): “Dude, how much more are you gonna eat, fatass?”
Tailor: Ohhh, I know you’re not talking. Let’s address the walking natural disaster that is your existence. For starters, let’s revisit the legendary day you raided your friend’s fridge like a starving raccoon on bath salts and inhaled 10,000 calories in one sitting. Burgers, pizzas, fried chicken, ice cream tubs—you didn’t just eat his food, you erased his family’s weekly groceries from history. The fridge looked like a nuclear test site when you were done. You didn’t stop when you were full, you stopped when the hinges squealed and the shelves collapsed from trauma.
You wanna call me fat? Buddy, if you ever had a heart attack, paramedics wouldn’t even try. They’d call the Department of Defense. They’d have to strap you to a flatbed semi-truck, and even that wouldn’t be enough. The second you got loaded, that truck wouldn’t be a semi anymore—it’d be a lowrider dragging its ass across the freeway. Sparks flying, asphalt shredding, traffic reports warning: “Expect delays, obesity spill on I-95.” The sight alone would make kids cry and truckers quit their jobs.
Helicopters? Forget it. They could chain four Black Hawks to you and halfway through the airlift you’d pull them down like a black hole collapsing a solar system. Boom—fiery crash, crater the size of a small country, FEMA on scene writing “Fatquake” into official reports. Historians would mark it as the second extinction event after the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs.
And burial? Ha! Coffins aren’t even an option—you’d need a hangar. You’d need to bulldoze every cemetery coast to coast just to make room. Tombstones ripped out, bodies relocated, families filing lawsuits because “Fat Bastard, Son of Bob” claimed the entire graveyard. At that point, the government wouldn’t even bother. They’d just tow you to the ocean and push you overboard. Scientists would mark you on maps as New Landmass. Countries would fight wars over colonizing your belly rolls. Cartographers would draw borders across your back. Children would climb your stretch marks like national hiking trails. Your stretch marks alone would qualify as the Grand Canyon 2.0.
And decomposition? Oh lord. When corpses release gas, it’s normal. But when you finally let loose? We’re talking methane levels that would blanket the sky and kill every bird in a 500-mile radius. The ocean would bubble like a witch’s cauldron. Whales would suffocate. Cruise ships would sink. NOAA would release warnings: “Toxic Fat Gas Advisory in effect until further notice.” NASA telescopes would detect the blast and think Earth just exploded into a brown dwarf star. Meanwhile, millions of light-years away, aliens would start sniffing the air.
Alien 1: “What’s that smell?”Alien 2: “Oh, that’s just Bob. The cosmic beacon of someone who gets no bitches.”
And don’t even get me started on your diet. You talk trash while ordering DoorDash three times before noon. You’ve got Uber Eats on speed dial like it’s a family member. If calories were money, you’d be a billionaire in debt. If cholesterol was a currency, you’d own Fort Knox. Honestly, your digestive system should be classified as a supermassive black hole because nothing escapes—not even light.
You’re not overweight, Bob. You’re a whole environmental hazard. You’re a FEMA training exercise. You’re a line item in the national budget. Your shadow alone probably has its own gravitational pull. If someone put you on a seesaw, the other end would launch into orbit. You sit down in a chair, that chair isn’t broken—it’s retired, with full benefits, because it worked harder than any construction worker alive.
The day you die, it won’t be a funeral. It’ll be a geological event. They’ll measure it on the Richter scale. CNN will run 24-hour coverage. The Pope will come out of retirement to pray for humanity’s survival. And when the gas releases from your corpse, Elon Musk will mistake it for a new planet and try to colonize it.
So before you open your mouth about me, understand this: you’re not just fat—you’re a biblical prophecy. You’re the four horsemen of obesity rolled into one. Your Tinder bio probably says, “Must love buffets.” Your blood type? Gravy. Your spirit animal? A heart attack in waiting. Your whole existence screams: “I haven’t seen my own toes since the Bush administration.”
You’re less of a man and more of a natural disaster, Bob. And when people remember you, they won’t say, “Oh, there goes Bob.” They’ll say, “Remember the crater he left? Remember the famine he caused by eating three counties dry? Remember the smell that haunted the galaxy?” Yeah, that’s your legacy. Congratulations.