I Want to Gain 300lbs in 3 Years

I want to be fat. The world is greener for the pudgy rather than the puny. I’ve been skinny, short, and asian my entire life. Muzzle on a weather vane for a nose and I’m like the perfect platypus of typically unattractive features. My body was not whittled by kind hands.

I want to be fat.  The world is greener for the pudgy rather than the puny.

I’ve been skinny, short, and Asian my entire life.  Muzzle on a weather vane for a nose and I’m like the perfect platypus of typically unattractive features.  My body was not whittled by kind hands.

Everyone always assumes that they’re so original and clever with their jokes.  Trust me, I’ve heard it all.  When I was a boy, quips about my large nose were the most popular.  Classmates cackled about how I was made of wood and must be a compulsive liar.  If Pinocchio was sitting in a chimney, I’d light the match.

“John, it looks like you’ve been lying.”
“I get it.  My face has an erection.  Nice one, Professor.”
“…be a good boy.  And always let your conscience be your guide.”
“Eff math.”

Society believes teasing about thinness, shortness, and good-at-mathness are within acting well-mannered.  I’m supposed to play the clown and compliment the pies being thrown in my face.  “By jove, you’re right! I am indeed shaped like a toothpick. Enjoy anotha pint of ale on me.”

I’m not even allowed to open conversations with jokes about how skinny I am.  Women get insecure and assume I’m bragging.  The last time I ribbed about shopping for my clothes in the kids’ section, every woman became self-conscious and began comparing dress sizes.  I’ve learned how to stand around awkwardly as women judge which parts of my physique are the most feminine, and how my legs would look killer in heels after a smooth waxing.

My mommy says I’m a man now.  I am not flattered by women envying my figure.

Proper etiquette is about making wisecracks behind the person’s back, hopefully a step out of earshot.  I cordially wait until my blubbery friends waddle their sweaty thunder thighs into a safe haven bathroom before I whip on their obesity because I was raised with upstanding values.  No one is ever as dignified to us thinners.

“You never eat, do you?”
“I eat when I’m hungry.”
“Go to hell, John. I’m sick of your crap.”

Working out to be buff is the wrong answer.  Washboard abs are only suited for promiscuous people.  I prefer monogamy and cuddling because I’m in touch with my bitch side.  If I were to hulk up this late in life, I would have to tolerate incessant joshing about always looking angry.  I’m tired of listening to banter.

My best move is to get fat.  Chubby is not good enough.  I want to put on so much chunk that everyone would worry about hurting my feelings.  The world would watch their words, otherwise everyone would have to find a new orbit.  I know people will joke about my fat ass whenever I leave the room, but I couldn’t care less.  Out of sight, out of mind.  Just like stumbling upon starving Ethiopian children, I’ll simply change the channel.

With the extra lard, people will finally find my humor endearing rather than intimidating.  I could tell fat jokes by the tons.  I would be free to unleash the onslaught without coming off as a jerk.  Pound for pound, I’d bout wits with the best of ‘em and the room would die laughing.

I might even get my own television show.  Obesity is so popular that I could establish a career of playing a buffoon husband opposite a sexy younger wife.  The sitcom would be titled “The King of Forks.”  I’d have money and cupcakes by the truckloads.

My maniacal laughter would be perceived as jolly instead of villainous.  I could break into your homes, eat all the cookies, and drink all the milk as long as I wear red.  I’d realize my Sound of Music dream of wearing curtains, and everyone would automatically assume I was a powerful singer before belching a note.

I never had many friends.  I imagine it’d be great to be so rotund, in a classroom, I’d be able to sit next to everybody.

The best benefit is that funny fatties get all the women because they extrude carefree confidence and maple syrup.  When girls tell a fat guy “Oh, you’re so cute and cuddly!,” hugs usually follow.  But whenever girls say to me “Gosh. You’re so skinny. I could probably break you,” they never follow up with a welcomed attempt at crushing my pelvis.

I wish I were fat.  No one understands the trials and tribulations of finding men’s jeans in a 29 inch waist.  Whatever.  The grass is always greener on the other side.  It’s currently past midnight and I’m gonna eat a quart of ice cream.

Back in the Day…

A gallery of things I remember about the 80s and 90s. Back in the day, when I was young, I’m not a kid anymore. But some days, I sit and wish I was a kid again

When I was young, I’m not a kid anymore.  But some days, I sit and wish I was a kid again.

I did my homework in Trapper Keepers and hid my grades in Pee Chee folders.

trapper keepers & pee chee folders

My school banned Pogs as gambling.


Only one kid was ever lucky enough to own Crossfire.

crossfire board game

We were accused of being drug dealers for having pagers.  823-143-80085

motorola pagers

Fads were annoying enough to be officially outlawed.

Fashion kept changing quickly, but it was usually over-sized and obnoxiously colorful.

bum equipment, hypercolors, crosscolors, jnco jeans

Teachers made us read our text messages in front of the entire class.

folded notes

Girls never jocked, flirted, macked, or liked me.  Little has changed.

origami star jar

We hid earbuds in our sleeves in order to listen to music in class.

old sony walkman

There was no auto-tune.  Beautiful people lip-synced over a lesser attractive person’s singing.


Koreans rocked the roots of reggae.


Hip-hop was on welfare.


Two graduation songs brought us to tears.



We learned family values from an obstetrician in whacky sweaters.

cosby show

And these guys were Gangnam Style.

del los rio - macarena

We Want to Quit, Piano!

I had one arch-nemesis as a child. This shadowy figure would umbrella down to our home under an ominous cloud of disappointment with a never ending regimen of practice and lessons.

I had one arch-nemesis as a child.  This shadowy figure would umbrella down to our home under an ominous cloud of disappointment with a never ending regimen of practice and lessons.

Once a week, there’d be a tapping, suddenly there came a rapping,
As for entrance she must be asking, “Holy crap!  Hide!  Mrs. Lee is here!”

Mrs. Lee was my piano teacher and admirable adversary.  She was a young mother with a soft and elegant face, often dressed in a warm smile.  I would have probably had a strong infatuation if her heart wasn’t blackened with the joys of music.  My spine still shudders at the haunting sounds of Für Elise.

She was hired by my mom to assassinate my love for quiet leisure.  Every Wednesday, Mrs. Lee sat me in front of a piano and bludgeoned me with encouragement, patience, and creativity.  It was sick how she almost imbued me with self-esteem.  I countered using all the stupidity my clumsy fingers could muster to stave off developing into a sexy male adult.  She was no match for my apathetic coordination.

Five years of piano lessons and I never graduated beyond playing Chopsticks.  Both of my sisters advanced by leaps and bounds.  But, they found no pleasure adding music to their charm and grace.  My sisters yearned to have my absence of mind.  If I was learning nothing, it was only fair they abstained from being talented as well.

One night, the three of us had a sibling huddle to discuss our grievances.  This was the dawn of our emancipation proclamation.  For the first and only time, we cast aside our begrudging differences as the wise eldest, the tenacious high-achieving middle, and the boy.  An impassioned protest was to be held before the last minutes of inevitable bedtime.  Nothing could prepare my mom for the forthcoming barrels of uninspired youth.  With our sibling quarrels on pause, we had finally assembled…to avenge…in 3-D…tesseract.

We armored up with fresh underwear helmets and strapped pillows to our chests.  On glorious poster boards and restless colored construction paper, we painted our messages of dissonance.  Now came the final measure.

We revolted.  My eldest sister lead the charge.  She front-kicked the master bedroom door and we flooded toward the foot of my mother’s regal mattress.  Emboldened by the adrenaline of overthrowing the iron fist of the family, we raised our signs proud and stomped in a continuous circle.  “We wanna quit! Pee-yea-no!”  We chanted in a perfectly trained four beats per measure.  The irony was thick and savory.

My mother rose from her throne.  She squinted her tired eyes upon the challenge we initiated and struck her response.  “Ya! Chee-gum mo-hah nee?!”  We froze at the thunderous Korean scolding.  I peed a little.

“We…wanna…quit? Pee-yea-no?”  The chant roared one last time despite the quivering about our knees.  In a swift commanding stroke, my mother pointed at the door.  We felt like we made our point.  Our indignation was laid on the table, so we resolved back to our bedrooms.

Like any loving parent, my mom held the weight of our unhappiness into consideration and carefully debated a decision…for several years.  While we waited the years for her compromise, my sisters grew to win ovations at every annual piano recital.  An apprehension to music never stunted the maturation of my sisters’ innate talents.  I continued to grind through Euphemia Allen’s satirical rendition of asians eating a piano.

My mother highness eventually decided that academic tutoring took precedence.  The queen unlocked our shackles from the keyboard and ended the tireless piano lessons.  We were to prepare for our respective careers as the eldest lawyer, the gorgeous middle doctor, and the boy.  Our mom had won the battle.  She pretty much won the war also.  But we made a statement.

My Kitten’s a Cat

I adopted my kitten from an unwilling feral mother. When I found her litter in my backyard, she bailed. Like most pussies, the mom got intimidated at the sight of my burly physique. She moved all but the cutest baby, so I made the last one a member of my cool Kim clan.

Zoe and Faye sleeping

I adopted my kitten from an unwilling feral mother.  When I found her litter in my backyard, she bailed.  Like most pussies, the mom got intimidated at the sight of my burly physique.  She moved all but the cutest baby, so I made the last one a member of my cool Kim clan.

After feeding the kitten from my supple bottle, it grew up into one striking orange beauty.  It’s a shame she’s a jerk.  I would have named her Red Sonja if I had foreseen her violent warrior nature. But, I named her Faye because I only knew of her cuddles at the time.

Faye sitting pretty

I now have the scratched chest of a rapist.  Every time I put on a shirt, Faye thinks it’s fun to launch into my torso.  I always shriek at her method of acupuncture.

Cat blogs state that I need toys to keep Faye occupied.  I spent a small fortune on distractions.  The purpose is to teach her to separate pouncing the toys from loving the humans.  Sadly, she’s too fond of drawing blood.  I doubt she’ll ever stop trying to murder me.

Faye’s favorite toys are mice stuffed with catnip.  She loves getting high.  Anytime I need to work, I throw a laced mouse on the ground and Faye flurries about for hours.

There are times when I wish I could grab a catnipped mouse and play with her.  I just can’t play with belligerent druggies.  She growls.  When Faye’s got her mouth on a mouse, she shoots me a stink-eye and swats her evil razor claws at my hands.

I was a fool to fall in love at first sight.  Now I’m trapped in marriage to an abusive catnipoholic.  Faye just lies around the house all day, naked.  She exerts her dominance by degrading me into shoveling her poop out of sand and doesn’t even make herself dinner.  I have to fetch her every meal, or else she glares and meows about how I’ve been letting my looks go.

I still love her though.  I love her for the kitten she was and the cat she could be.  The nights are sweet as she snuggles by my side, despite her breath always reeking of the nip.  I dread the mornings when she insists on biting my toes.

Faye sleeping on my arm