Is Fat Phat?
Baritone Voice-Over: You are watching the Nigga Network: Programming That Can't Possibly Be More Troubling Than What's On BET! And now the Emmy-Award eligible news show "Nigga: Confidential."
A New Millennium Nigga walks through slashes of mood lighting toward the camera. He stops. Over his shoulder we see:
NMN: First of all...fuck Ronald McDonald! The introduction was like so many others I had written, but somehow the story would prove to be different. It started out a piece about the obesity epidemic.
It was a story about how McDonald’s now sponsors “Sesame Street.” God forbid kids learn how to count to ten before they get hooked on the hormones, fat and salt that keep Grimace looking so fucking svelte.
It was a story about a President of the United States, a man of leisure, who has seen to it that an entire generation of public school students don’t even get PE thanks to his bullshit education budget cuts. No child left behind?! They’ll all be left behind. They won’t be able to walk if they get any fucking fatter. On the bright side, I guess one way to deal with the Social Security shortfall is to start killing kids.
It started out a story about a lot of things. It ended up a story about a little boy --well, there was nothing little about him -- a great big fat boy who touched my heart, a boy named Tommy. Some of you were touched too.
Heather in Orange County wrote:
“That story about the little fat boy made me really sad even though you can't see it on my Botox-deadened face. I think some formerly fat people like Al Roker should hold a telethon to get all the porkers gastric bypass surgery. That's a universal health care plan I could get behind. Either that or they should puke after they eat. That’s what I do.”
Keep watching, Heather. What matters is what you feel on the inside not what registers on your plastic face.
Some of you were a little more hard-hitting. Tahmel in Brooklyn wrote:
“That story about that fat-ass kid was crazy comedy, son. We was all at the crib screamin' on him, god. That muthafucka was so fat he look like he shit Snickers bars. That's my word.”
Thanks for writing, Sha-kim.
There were others with a range of responses. But one thing was common to them all. They were all impacted by the little boy who ate Quarter Pounders until he weighed a quarter ton.
Cheesy keyboard music plays over the title: DO YOU BLEED BACON GREASE?
NMN walks along a sunny suburban street...pushing a wheelbarrow...with something that looks like a cross between Jabba the Hut and a young Ricky Schroeder wedged into it.
NMN: And that’s the story of Thomas Belcher. So although "Tubby" Tommy weighs 587 pounds, I’d say he’s worth his weight in gold. Goddamn! You are a heavy muthafucka for a 5 year old.
Out of breath, NMN stops walking when he reaches the front lawn of the Belcher House.
MRS. BELCHER: It’s not his fault.
MRS. BELCHER, a scale-tilter in her own right, bends down to “Tubby” Tommy in his wheelbarrow. She feeds him with a soup ladle from a bucket of Skittles. “Tubby” Tommy smiles.
“TUBBY” TOMMY: I can taste the rainbow, Mommy. I really can taste it.
MRS. BELCHER: I know, son. I know.
Fighting back tears, she pours a two-liter Diet Coke down his gullet. The irony is lost on her.
Choked up, NMN turns to camera.
NMN: Sure Tommy’s diabetes may be Type 2, but he’ll always be #1 in my heart. For 'Nigga: Confidential--
“TUBBY” TOMMY: Wait. Can we sing the song…one more time?
NMN: Sure we can “Tubby” Tommy. It’s your favorite.
TOGETHER: (singing sweetly) Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese…
NMN breaks down.
“TUBBY” TOMMY: What’s the matter, Mr. Nigga?
NMN: It’s just that…if we don’t do something about your weight, about all the fat ass kids like you –
BUUUUUUURRRRRRRPPPPPPP. “Tubby” Tommy lets one rip that rattles the windows in the neighborhood houses. NMN's glasses crack.
MRS. BELCHER: Well, they don’t call us the Belchers for nothing.
NMN and Mrs. Belcher share a laugh as “Tubby” Tommy chuckles through his signature fat man wheeze.
CUT TO:
NMN walks down the same suburban street in the rain.
NMN: That was then. This is now.
NMN stops at the Belcher house. The empty wheelbarrow sits on the lawn.
NMN: “Tubby” Tommy died last Friday. I was with him at the time. It’s rare that a nigga witnesses the transition from life to death. It’s a once in a lifetime moment when a nigga actually gets to see a muthafucka explode. All you can eat indeed, “Tubby” Tommy. All you can eat indeed. Mrs. Belcher asked that I deliver “Tubby” Tommy’s eulogy. Here is some of what I had to say about our beloved round mound.
CUT TO:
NMN stands in a pulpit.
NMN: Who knows? If he had lived longer, dealing with his diabetes, eating the shit he was eating, he might have gone blind. He might have needed an amputation. Am I right Mrs. Belcher?
Mrs. Belcher nods in no particular direction from behind her sunglasses. She reaches her prosthetic hand into a bucket of Popeye’s, pulls out a spicy breast and swallows it whole. The IV bag that hangs beside her reads “Kool-Aid.”
NMN: No, “Tubby” Tommy is in a better place now, a place where chairs are wide and doorways are wider. He’s gone on to that great big buffet in the sky. So, in conclusion, I offer this prayer.
May the food there be all processed.
May the sugars be refined.
May the portion sizes be out of wack
And fucking blow your mind.
May there always be ketchup
To drown your super-sized fries
May you never see or never know
Another day of exercise.
Amen.
And now…I ask that you take out your Big Mac and Wendy’s Frosty.
NMN dunks a Big Mac into a chocolate Frosty and wolfs down the whole thing. Everyone in the congregation does the same.
NMN: Do this in remembrance of “Tubby” Tommy Belcher.
A New Millennium Nigga walks through slashes of mood lighting toward the camera. He stops. Over his shoulder we see:
NMN: First of all...fuck Ronald McDonald! The introduction was like so many others I had written, but somehow the story would prove to be different. It started out a piece about the obesity epidemic.
It was a story about how McDonald’s now sponsors “Sesame Street.” God forbid kids learn how to count to ten before they get hooked on the hormones, fat and salt that keep Grimace looking so fucking svelte.
It was a story about a President of the United States, a man of leisure, who has seen to it that an entire generation of public school students don’t even get PE thanks to his bullshit education budget cuts. No child left behind?! They’ll all be left behind. They won’t be able to walk if they get any fucking fatter. On the bright side, I guess one way to deal with the Social Security shortfall is to start killing kids.
It started out a story about a lot of things. It ended up a story about a little boy --well, there was nothing little about him -- a great big fat boy who touched my heart, a boy named Tommy. Some of you were touched too.
Heather in Orange County wrote:
“That story about the little fat boy made me really sad even though you can't see it on my Botox-deadened face. I think some formerly fat people like Al Roker should hold a telethon to get all the porkers gastric bypass surgery. That's a universal health care plan I could get behind. Either that or they should puke after they eat. That’s what I do.”
Keep watching, Heather. What matters is what you feel on the inside not what registers on your plastic face.
Some of you were a little more hard-hitting. Tahmel in Brooklyn wrote:
“That story about that fat-ass kid was crazy comedy, son. We was all at the crib screamin' on him, god. That muthafucka was so fat he look like he shit Snickers bars. That's my word.”
Thanks for writing, Sha-kim.
There were others with a range of responses. But one thing was common to them all. They were all impacted by the little boy who ate Quarter Pounders until he weighed a quarter ton.
Cheesy keyboard music plays over the title: DO YOU BLEED BACON GREASE?
NMN walks along a sunny suburban street...pushing a wheelbarrow...with something that looks like a cross between Jabba the Hut and a young Ricky Schroeder wedged into it.
NMN: And that’s the story of Thomas Belcher. So although "Tubby" Tommy weighs 587 pounds, I’d say he’s worth his weight in gold. Goddamn! You are a heavy muthafucka for a 5 year old.
Out of breath, NMN stops walking when he reaches the front lawn of the Belcher House.
MRS. BELCHER: It’s not his fault.
MRS. BELCHER, a scale-tilter in her own right, bends down to “Tubby” Tommy in his wheelbarrow. She feeds him with a soup ladle from a bucket of Skittles. “Tubby” Tommy smiles.
“TUBBY” TOMMY: I can taste the rainbow, Mommy. I really can taste it.
MRS. BELCHER: I know, son. I know.
Fighting back tears, she pours a two-liter Diet Coke down his gullet. The irony is lost on her.
Choked up, NMN turns to camera.
NMN: Sure Tommy’s diabetes may be Type 2, but he’ll always be #1 in my heart. For 'Nigga: Confidential--
“TUBBY” TOMMY: Wait. Can we sing the song…one more time?
NMN: Sure we can “Tubby” Tommy. It’s your favorite.
TOGETHER: (singing sweetly) Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese…
NMN breaks down.
“TUBBY” TOMMY: What’s the matter, Mr. Nigga?
NMN: It’s just that…if we don’t do something about your weight, about all the fat ass kids like you –
BUUUUUUURRRRRRRPPPPPPP. “Tubby” Tommy lets one rip that rattles the windows in the neighborhood houses. NMN's glasses crack.
MRS. BELCHER: Well, they don’t call us the Belchers for nothing.
NMN and Mrs. Belcher share a laugh as “Tubby” Tommy chuckles through his signature fat man wheeze.
CUT TO:
NMN walks down the same suburban street in the rain.
NMN: That was then. This is now.
NMN stops at the Belcher house. The empty wheelbarrow sits on the lawn.
NMN: “Tubby” Tommy died last Friday. I was with him at the time. It’s rare that a nigga witnesses the transition from life to death. It’s a once in a lifetime moment when a nigga actually gets to see a muthafucka explode. All you can eat indeed, “Tubby” Tommy. All you can eat indeed. Mrs. Belcher asked that I deliver “Tubby” Tommy’s eulogy. Here is some of what I had to say about our beloved round mound.
CUT TO:
NMN stands in a pulpit.
NMN: Who knows? If he had lived longer, dealing with his diabetes, eating the shit he was eating, he might have gone blind. He might have needed an amputation. Am I right Mrs. Belcher?
Mrs. Belcher nods in no particular direction from behind her sunglasses. She reaches her prosthetic hand into a bucket of Popeye’s, pulls out a spicy breast and swallows it whole. The IV bag that hangs beside her reads “Kool-Aid.”
NMN: No, “Tubby” Tommy is in a better place now, a place where chairs are wide and doorways are wider. He’s gone on to that great big buffet in the sky. So, in conclusion, I offer this prayer.
May the food there be all processed.
May the sugars be refined.
May the portion sizes be out of wack
And fucking blow your mind.
May there always be ketchup
To drown your super-sized fries
May you never see or never know
Another day of exercise.
Amen.
And now…I ask that you take out your Big Mac and Wendy’s Frosty.
NMN dunks a Big Mac into a chocolate Frosty and wolfs down the whole thing. Everyone in the congregation does the same.
NMN: Do this in remembrance of “Tubby” Tommy Belcher.
posted by New Millennium Nigga at 1:08 AM
2 Comments:
I think I'm in love with your blog. There's no better way to state an opinion than to show how assinine the opposing view is. If you can do it, run with it. And you've got it covered.
Hell, I'm linking this shit, so if you're anti-linkage, feel free to tell me to fuck off.
Welcome impulsivecompulsive.
Feel free to link. Feel free to forward. Feel free to tell a friend. Feel free to scream from the mountaintops. Generally feel free to spread the word.
By the way, checked your blog. Good to see that someone else is in favor of dropping F-bombs in the name of Jesus.
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