Yes I AM Jolly, Thanks For Asking!

by POPSIE 1956

fat_bastard

There’s a reason why I write this now.

Not to whine.

Not to bitch.

Not to complain.

Something happened to me yesterday at the doctor’s office that really pissed me off.

(Before anyone potentially freaks out, all is well, health wise, I actually plan to outlive all of you bastards..)

I will explain at the end of this blog.

Oh, if you are in the medical profession, please don’t psycho analyze me.

Let’s begin with an introduction…

Hi, I’m Mike, and I’m a Fat Fuck…

(Hi Mike)

I have had issues with my weight (but not ALWAYS my health) for the bulk (pun intended) of my 60 years on the face of the earth.

And it has been the MOST frustrating thing I have ever had to deal with.

I can NEVER remember a time as a child where I was a “normal” size.

But I was healthy, or so I (and my parents) thought.

As mentioned in an earlier blog, when I was a child I developed the croup, and in doing so stopped breathing for a time, and had to be “trached.”

From that day on, I had issues with food.

Either I ate the “WRONG” food, or I ate too MUCH food, or I wasn’t active enough to burn off whatever food I DID consume.

Which limited the types of clothes I could wear.

(My mother was VERY good at shopping the Army Navy Store.)

Speaking of clothes and fat people, why were the styles and colors SO limited?

A pause for a moment to clarify something.

I…..am…..fat…..

not…..heavy…..

not…..obese…..

not…..overweight…..

not even…..big boned…..

and it’s quite OK.

Fat people can refer to themselves as fat.

It’s also an unwritten rule that fat people can refer to OTHER fat people as fat.

But if a non fat person calls a fat person fat, the non fat person has just opened up the Gates of Hell.

It’s sorta like, for example, an African American referring to another African American as…that word.

But if a non African American calls an African American…that word…well we know how that turns out.

Being a fat child was quite difficult for someone with few friends at the time, and especially after my father passed when I was 13.

Kids can be very cruel.

Teasing hurt…..bad.

Picked on, bullied, beat up, in part because I was quite clueless to the ways of the world and socialization at the time, but also in part because I looked…..different.

One of the most EMBARRASSING times in my life was in 7th Grade at Shaker Junior High.

It was a Friday night dance/play night, the FIRST time I was hanging out with school buds outside of the classroom.

Early in the evening, a group of us are working with a giant size medicine ball in the gym..it comes to me…and I split my pants, BAD!

7th Grade.

I remember that night like it was yesterday.

I hid in a bathroom for the rest of the night until my mother came to pick me up.

Things got a bit better in High School.

Still didn’t know where I was headed or what I was gonna do in life, but my tolerance level increased, and SOME of the teasing and bullying eased up.

In 10th Grade I was on the JV Football team, second string, wasn’t very good, wasn’t a jock or really into sports.

But I was still reaching for something.

The jocks didn’t want me, but in time I renewed a friendship with a guy I knew from back in 4th Grade.

He was a 10th Grade “Hippie” by that time, so it was all love, peace and happiness.

It was also rebellion time, which led to a somewhat minor run in the two of us had with the law.

He and I moved on (and reconnected years later), but I was still searching for something again.

That came in 11th Grade with my introduction to the stage, which in time introduced me to broadcasting.

To “Theater People” (and eventually to “Radio People”), you were accepted for YOU; not your looks, but YOU..

These people thought like me, acted (personality wise not performance wise) like me, appreciated me for me.

No, I will NOT use the Sally Field line, but it IS true.

From High School Theater to College Theater, from College Broadcasting to Professional Broadcasting, I HAD FINALLY FIT IN!

I learned something else from my talented friends.

These people were BRILLIANT!

They could drop insults like Hillary drops e-mails.

(NOT a political statement, just made me laugh so I chose to put it in.)

They taught me the art of the insult, the slam, the diss, they taught me to develop a thicker skin, thicker than what was growing from the increased calories.

AND I LOVED IT!

I’ve also taken professional advantage of the added pounds, by making fun of myself, even in an exaggerated way on the air or on the stage.

Radio is WONDERFUL theater, if they don’t know what you look like, they will believe what you tell them on the air if you’re convincing enough.

Years ago, in Boy Scouts, I was given the nickname “Moose”

(in part I believe because my Scoutmaster couldn’t pronounce Marchinuke).

I embraced it, and to THIS day, long time friends will STILL call me Moose.

In Radio, I have used the name “Big Mike Patrick,.”

I have also referred on air to myself as “Radio Fat Guy” and “Big Tub O’ Goo,” among others.

A shrink would call it a defense mechanism, and perhaps it is, BUT it cuts the tension like a knife used to add butter to the bag of popcorn.

So, am I bitter?

I was a long time ago, now, don’t give a fuck WHAT you think, I like me…

Don’t accept who I am, oily skin and all? Kiss my ass you prejudiced piece of crap.

Oh yeah, before I stop, the doctor thing.

Haven’t been feeling well and wanted to get checked out.

Instead of my usual doctor, I get a Physician’s Assistant.

A somewhat…..thin…..Physician’s Assistant.

The ones who think EVERYONE should look the same.

He noticed in the last few times I have been in, there is no record of my current weight.

I get my weight taken twice a year, at my semi annual check ups with my doctor.

So the snobby PA starts getting judgemental and starts to chastise me for not having taken my weight, and adds, “Let’s go do that now.”

“No thank you.”

What do you mean no thank you?”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“But you HAVE to.”

“No I don’t, my regular doctor is OK with me taking it twice a year, you’ll have to too…or would you like to call my doctor right now and ask him?”

He moved on.

I knew, and he knew, the odds were in my favor.

My doctor is a fat fuck too…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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