My big fat irish ass

There's this...recurring fantasy that just won't leave me alone. It haunts me in my sleep, distracts me when I'm awake, and stirs longings in me I dare not spell out in too much specificity lest I border on vulgarity. I know, I know, I don't usually speak of matters such as these here, but it's gotten so far under my skin that the only way to rid myself of it is to come online and shake it off like a tick, watch its blood-filled carcass sail through the ether and splatter in an unholy kaleidoscope against some firewall in a darkened cobblestone alleyway.

Uh, what was I talkin' about? Oh, yeah...

In my fantasy, what I want is there in front of me, waiting only for me to...slip in my spatula and flip it over until it's golden brown on both sides. Oh, yes, baby - french toast, eight slices of white bread, four eggs, a splash of water, dash of cinnamon, just enough vanilla to make my nostrils flare. Crispy, but not burned. Good griddly gluttony. Jump back, gonna kiss myself. Eight slices of french toast, all perfect on my plate, and some apricot syrup, distributed unsparingly. And just like that, it's gone - fork exhausted on the plate like a pecker who's just done double duty, napkin crumpled and syrup stained, plate licked clean of syrup and every last crumb....mmmm, and then I step out on the porch and smoke a wonderful, lung-punching, unfiltered Camel. When I come back in the house, I wander over to the scales. Now mind you, in this fantasy, this is my 17th day in a row to have eight slices of french toast for breakfast. I step on the scales. I look down.
I weigh a pound less than I did yesterday. Dammit!

Oh, wait - that's not a fantasy; that's a flashback to my high school years.

I was one of those irritating "Oh, I can eat every morsel of food in sight - in fact, I regularly slap candy from the hands of children and eat it myself - but I just can't seem to gain an ounce!" kind of people in high school. I was watcha call too skinny, actually. I was close to six feet tall, and I couldn't get my weight over 115, hard as I might try. Oh, and I tried. God, did I try. I really wanted to fill out a little more (note to self: should have specified where "filling out" was to cease and when "a little more" was "a little too much").

And it wasn't like I was bein' dainty, eatin' like a bird. Oh, no fuckin' way. No. I was nicknamed "The Eating Machine" (not for my skills at oral pleasure, unfortunately; only nickname that ever got me was Gaglia), and I lived up to it. Let's start with the french toast, eight slices of it. That would be a good start to the day. I could probably eat two cheese sandwiches at lunch with no problem, and that might hold me until dinner, where it wouldn't be any problem for me to eat a box or two of macaroni and cheese all by myself, or a whole large pizza if it was a fancy eatin' night. All of this was accompanied by enough milk and orange juice to drown my graduating class (unfortunately, that never happened). Oh, and beer. I know, I know, I was in high school, and the law is sort of against high school students drinking beer. But I drank it fast, so the law wouldn't see me do it. I think we're even...or something. I liked my beer by the quart, and since when is it okay to finish an entire pizza without at least two quarts of beer? This doesn't even take into account all the snacking I would do between meals. My body constantly demanded more fuel, more fuel, more beer (well, it didn't specifically demand the beer, but I sort of felt like that's what it would have told me, if it'd had the words).

My appetite was apparently entertaining to some adults in the neighborhood. We'd have these big block parties, where everyone would bring food and booze and there'd be volleyball and kids on Big Wheels, and sometimes adults on Big Wheels (note the aforementioned booze). I lived for that shit, because it was a chance to wade in up to my bony ass and eat for as long as the carcasses had meat on 'em. I always had the feeling the adults were watching how much I ate, and most of them were highly amused by the sheer volume of food the beanpole bitch could consume. There were quite often barely suppressed bursts of laughter as I'd circle and make my sixth or seventh trip back to the buffet. My sis even dated a guy for a while who would occasionally take me along on a date, just because it made him laugh to see how much food I could eat when put in an all-you-can-eat situation - though I still feel kinda bad about that brunch at Charley's Crab, where I was so bloody fucking hung over I couldn't even eat a plateful. I'm sure it was probably delicious, for someone who hadn't been up all night re-tasting Miller Lite and Kessler's.

I not only didn't have to watch what I ate, I went out of my way to try to gain weight. Just typing that now makes me shake my head at the unfairness of it all. By the time I was 25, I was to the ideal weight for my height. Fantastic! But then, I realized what a motherfucker the human body can be, and let's just say no one would ever accuse me of being "too skinny" ever again. The worst part is that I didn't realize just how damn good I looked at 25, hell; even at too-skinny 18, I'm sure the lack of gravitational ravages would make up for some of the ability to count each rib - although my best friend, Lynda, did nickname me "Pendulous Mammarus Minumus" in high school gym class, so take that into account while you're picturing me as a naked teenager and then saying 200 Hail Marys, you hellbound sicko.

So there you have it; my fantasy is just high school with the zits and anxiety surgically removed.

Oh, and I think I did promise you some anal sex, and I do try to make good on my promises (um, unless I'm offering Rice-a-Roni, the San Francisco Treat, as a prize which turns out to be completely fraudulent and starts a blogworld scandal).

So I give you...Anal Sex Catch of the Day!


Oh, Pat, let me squeeze them succulent breastseses one more tahm...

The really weird part is that I always pictured Jerry as the catcher, not the pitcher. But oh, I see he's got a slider that brings tears to Pat's eyes.

I hope this wasn't too sentimental and romantic for you guys.