HE CALLED ME "FAT"

He called me “fat,” and I cringed, not

at the insult, as such (not much a one)

but at the verbal dull, the paucity of

adjective, the pervading mental lull, the

flap of his limp and flaccid gums, the lack of

hearty fun. Fat? Why fat, I cried? Surely,

round would move things up a pitch or two,

and gargantuan would do, and corpulent

construe the adipose goo at hand. Why fat, oh,

fatuous man? Call me beefy, blimp, or bulging;

term me bovine, bull, or burly; name me chunky,

roly-poly ,or inflated as your nog. O, linguini,

limp and little! Your linguistic torpor bores, ignores

the 25,000 words that Joyce and Shakespeare

forged, and do not hoard (but your words,

overall, are snores). As I eat my s’mores,

let's resume: I am thickset, paunchy, heavy

as the synapses in you; I am wider than a

canyon and the broad primordial stew. Fat?

Fat, you fraud? I am Queen of unburnt calorie,

the rarest elephantine; the Mobyest of

sentient beasts, the diet doctor’s bawd.

My stockiness drives diet stock, my pudge

the script of pills; I am larger than Niagara

and the Roman seven hills. Dormant doormat,

there are spas of verdant bliss for me, but no

school for fools like you. You are but a speck of

rotten lard, a granule of mere sand; I am high and

vast and infinite, dimensionally great and grand.