Back on the radar: The Mayor of Fatville!!!

Good day, precious lambs, do I have news for you. Ready? You may be as surprised as I was when I found out. I have just been elected Fatty McFatterson, the Mayor of FATVILLE!!! That's right - my running mate, Chubby Chubbenstein, and I are back on the radar here in the Real World, Hell's Kitchen and we are FAT! Whoo hoo - it feels naughty to say it but it's decidedly true! Let me explain...

Take, for example, the (formerly) "fat" skirt I split the seam on yesterday. You know what? I gots to give that girl a rest 'cuz she don't like being stretched that way. Or the 7 year old who asked if I was pregnant the other day? She knew exactly who she was talking to - she saw me campaigning over on the corner of Ice Cream and Wine! Or the new fall "campaign" clothes I bought at Old Navy - double the digits equal double the fun for chubby chasers like Mr. Chubbenstein. And the best evidence of all - no one throwing you a bone when you admit it yourself. Ahem.

So, we've returned to life as we know it in the city and are now all pious

and spare - eating produce from local farms and hungry man salads for dinner. It blows. I've been trying to psych myself up with little affirmations like, "Today, don't judge yourself by the fruits you bear but by the seeds you put in the ground." The only word I latched on to in that sentence was "fruit" because if it weren't for my gay I'd be much more concerned that my poor, ragged liver is now trying to file an unemployment claim and is hoping for extended benefits. We'll see, cranky.

The only thing that really got my motor running (at least in my head) was the gorgeous, tiny, sexy, tall amazing man that (sometimes smokes,












proving he is indeed flesh and blood) but we still call Mister President last night I mean, come ON people - have we had better than this?!?! Hearing him last night so passionately defending his health care plan - neither stopping for applause nor heckler (asswipe!)
- but just being the incredibly charismatic speaker that he is, made me leap out of my lazy boy and beat my chest for I heard him loud and clear. His message was to me, McFatterson, "TAKE ACTION. NOW!" I was inspired. I mean, if some of us can't even do that in our own personal lives and yet he's even fighting for the I'm-so-fat-I-gave-myself-diabetes-and-now-I-have-to-shop-the-Walmart-in-a-Jazzy people, then what does that say about us? Or more specifically, what does that say about me? He's not trying to be liked - he's the fucking President, he doesn't give a shit! He has his own health care and could probably personally take care of many people's health care. He's here to help us! Christ!

So. I've put aside my slick campaign promises for now - no more hidden agendas -
and am taking action. I went for a run. Again. It was hard. The wind was blowing at me. I felt it's weight against the weight of my poor, tan and a little too-relaxed body. I walked. A lot. I did it for an hour. I tried to visualize great things, but all I could think of was Merlot. It was hard. I was slow. But I took action.

Thanks, Mister President, for inspiring me. You are truly a gift to us all. As my running mate (who is, incidentally, cleaning up his own act as well - I think he's secretly planning on running in 2010) said to me last night, "I hope the next president will be a fucking Mexican. Or Chinese." "Or American Indian?" I ventured. But that would just be too symbolic and perfect, wouldn't it? And after all, once you go black...