I immediately recognized the gentleman ahead of me in the
Wendy’s line–he was the type of fellow who would approach a buffet
and pull up a chair. My suspicions were validated when he bellowed
at the cowering cashier, “I’ll take a Triple with extra cheese and
bacon, Great Biggie Fries, AND A SMALL DIET LEMONADE.” This
proclamation was validated by a confident assessment that he was
“on a diet.” Congratulations, buddy, I’m sure I’ll see you modeling
underwear when pigs, such as yourself, fly.

Unless you count the morons with Marlboros dangling from the
same hand encircled with a Lance Armstrong bracelet, it’s tough to
top the staggering hypocrisy of the previous anecdote. And yet, it
happens every day in America, aided and abetted by the shackles of
political correctness. Shh, obesity is killing us, but kindly don’t
talk about it.

Smoking numbers are down across the board, yet waist sizes are
up and fashion styles are tighter than ever. Call me crazy–I
prefer saddlebags on a motorcycle instead of on a portly woman who
shoehorned herself into a pair of Von Dutch hip-huggers. Believe it
or not, low-rise jeans are not meant for everyone. You can’t wear
them if you’re over 30, and you definitely can’t wear them if
you’re unable to see your feet.

“C’mon Butler,” you say, “Some people have legitimate problems
with their thyroid glands.” In rare cases, I agree. However, I must
invoke the great philosopher, Jesse “The Body” Ventura, when he
said that the average person simply has a problem with their
stomach.

Let’s be honest, eating healthy sucks. Slingers taste better
than spinach, and the worst ingredients in a bowl of chili are all
those damn beans. I’d rather lick a urinal than drink a Michelob
Ultra: The former is free and probably tastes comparable to the
latter.

However, misery operates on a sliding scale. Any mental anguish
suffered from choking down a Garden Burger rather than inhaling a
Big Mac is easily offset when one considers the alternative. Unlike
other vices, obese young professionals are literally wearing their
lack of self-control in front of their supervisors. Stuff your nose
full of the devil’s dandruff after work and no one will notice the
next day–just ask Mary Kate Olsen. Stuff your mouth full of
Doritos every night, and within two months you and your Big and
Tall wardrobe have become the laughingstock of your workplace.

As collegians, we have no excuse to be fat. I’m fond of bitching
about my snail-like metabolism and “big bones,” but deep down I
know there are forty-something family men with full-time jobs who
are in better shape than me. Blame laziness, poor diet or love of
drink–I could do better, and so could most of you.

Ladies, the dessert bar at Griesedeck cafeteria is not your
friend. Unless you’re prepared to run and crunch off those calories
at the Rec Center, kindly avoid popping brownies like Tic-Tacs and
hit the salad bar instead.

Fellas, our situation is much more dire. We’re still clinging to
our manly love of full-flavor beer and fried foods, but soon enough
this will go the way of chest hair and the leisure suit. Even our
darling men’s magazines have betrayed us, devoting entire issues to
outrageous topics such as “Eight Ways to Flatten Your Gut.” I take
offense to this terminology–it’s not a beer gut, it’s a fuel tank
for a love machine.

Once upon a time, a guy kept fit until settling into a nice,
long relationship. Being the man, it was his privilege to
deteriorate into a rotund couch potato. Naturally, the woman was
expected to keep the dimples off her booty, lest she be traded for
a newer model. It was a good system if you peed while standing.
Then those Jezebels at Cosmopolitan came along.

These days, dudes eagerly submerge strange body parts in Nair at
the request of their significant other. Facial hair, like the
buffalo, has nearly vanished from the plains of America. I still
mourn the demise of the mustache, but this fitness kick is the last
straw.

Gone is the reliance upon my rapier wit. If my jeans make my
butt look big, then stick a fork in me because I’m done. Today’s
women expect two tickets to the gun show, and I plan on answering
the demand. Anything less than physical perfection would be
disgusting.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to Live Strong with the
Marlboro Man.