Heeeey, look who it is! It's my favorite guy! The fattest man in the room! My goodness, look at you. You are just a glorious bucket of goo, aren't you. What are you, just a million billion pounds? Why you're as big around as you are tall! You're a chode man. You could roll yourself onto your side, put a dapper top hat on that hernia there and roll your fat new self into town, and no one would be the wiser. No one pays attention to fat people, you see. Except me.

Who am I, you say? I'm a hunger-induced hallucination. Gracious, you haven't consumed anything in… why its almost been ten minutes, isn't that right? At least, I think you just asked me who I am. It's so hard to understand you. Your larynx is being choked by your ninth chin and when you speak, your face is a maelstrom of flops and jiggles. It's quite distracting, you great white prick.

I must say, though, I am rather impressed by your girth. It certainly is a commitment to become so damn large. To take up so much damn space. To eat so much more than you fucking should. Tell me, how much of that is junk food, how much is pure butter, and how much is a new metamorphic type of cellulite created by time and pressure now shingling your very crease-ed armpits? Tell me, how long has it been since you've seen your legs? They could be gone, you know. Years ago, Leg 1 could have bowed to Leg 2 and said, "Christ, but I'm exhausted. Let's you and me depart from our cumbersome fate and become vaudevillians," and so they absconded and left you teetering on two French baguettes. Wouldn't that be ironic? Tell me, if that were true, would you eat your own legs? Tell me – I have a bet with someone – can you disconnect your skeleton and swim around inside your cavernous self?

When you were young, just a milkfed little cherub, were you teased in school? I presume you were, though not with this level of eloquence. I'm sure you were called names like Tubby, Chubby, Flubby, Pudgy, Dumpy, Dumbo, Elephant, Cow, Whale, Fatbody, Fathead, Fat-tits, Fat Shit, Fatass, Jigglebelly, Manboobs, Retard (oh, sorry that's not one), Fat Retard, Black Hole, Neutron Star, Mountain, Glutton, Widebody, Pork Rinds-For-Blood—am I getting warm, Fatso? For that matter, are you getting warm? It's about sixty-five degrees in here. That circus tent you've draped yourself in must be saturated by your sickly sweet perspiration by now, isn't that right?

God dammit, but I hate fat people. Ugh, you make me sick. How unfair is that? You're the one who's big as hell, and I'm the one who's going to vomit. How could you do that? How could you maintain such an outlandish diet? What other serious personality defects do you have? Obviously what you're doing is letting the saw go fat and then blaming the saw. I bet a woman wouldn't even point you toward the nearest Burger King let alone talk to you, you blob! (oh that's one I forgot before) I bet you would intimidate most girls anyhow. You've got bigger tits than any woman I've ever seen! And even if you paid the most desperate of prostitutes, it would be so much of an effort to excavate your tiny, worthless pecker – and yes, it's probably the only part of you that is tiny besides your brain and liver – from beneath your grotesquely distended belly that she'd die on the spot. And you know what you'd do then? You'd be so depressed that you'd pick that dead whore up, and you'd eat her. You would fucking eat her, wouldn't you? Dress her up with Canadian bacon and Hollandaise sauce and scarf her down like hooker benedict, isn't that right, you monster? That's the most hideous thing I've ever heard of, and I've met your mother. Why don't you just kill yourself? Yes, faster than you already are with cholesterol and diabetes. Eat a fistful of pills, why don't you? Yeah, eating, we like that, don't we? Better yet, why don't you eat a shotgun? It'd take one hell of a rifle to penetrate your blubber, and a hell of a maneuver for you to even point it at yourself, but I'm sure you could do it, I mean, if you cared enough. Cared enough about the rest of humanity, that is.

Now, now, don't cry. You need those precious calories. All that delightful sodium dripping down the ripples in your face. Such a waste. You could probably feed the entire nation of Namibia with your love handles. Why don't you do something useful with them besides annihilating your underwear's waistband and—… my God, would you look at that fop over there? That has to be the most effeminate nelly I have ever laid eyes on. Heeeey, look who it is! It's my favorite guy! The gayest man in the room! My goodness, look at you. You are just a fabulously fey piece of work…