We're Starting a Fat Guy Revolution

Look at those numbers my brothers. We're up to eight in the Fat Guy Coalition and there's no sign of slowing down.

I'd like to welcome Big Nate, Little Nate, and Chadwick to the FGC. There's another new member, but I have no idea who it is. No matter. I'd like to welcome you to our world you crazy (possibly illiterate) new brother.

For those of you who have joined, or for those who plan, the Big E and I have come up with a little thing we're trying to get started. For our I.D. pictures, we're choosing one of our favorite fat guys of all time. I have Fred Flinstone (my first hero), and the Big E chose Stanley form The Office (his latest hero).

If you'd like to join us by selecting your own fat guy, we do encourage that sort of thing.

Also, send in your ideas for a post and one of us will jump on it as soon as possible. Either leave it in a comment or just email us at fatguyreport@gmail.com.

This is just a short post thanking all of you for keeping me going. I love to hear from all of you, whether it be by comment, text or email. As long as you're still around, I'll keep this thing going.

I (heart) pie.

The Fascist Double Standard of the Upchucking Fat Guy

When the Big Country and I met up back at the former homestead a few days ago, more than a few of the old stories came crashing back in my mind. For those who know us both, the fact that the majority of those old tales involved the third member of our friendship — beer — is no surprise.

In our day, Big Country and I spent a lot of time together, not much of it was sober and/or productive. However, it was one hell of a party. There was one memory I always recall when thinking of that big, rosy-cheeked bastard. It also reminds me of why fat guys must follow their own set of rules while drinking.

It was opening day of the 2005 Major League Baseball season, and the San Francisco Giants were kicking things off at the San Diego Padres' new stadium, Petco Park. 

(Here's a few things you need to know about this game: The Giants' Jason Schmidt and San Diego's Jake Peavy were two of the best pitchers in the game. The team's offenses were horrid. And Petco is definitely a pitcher's ballpark. Add it up and it equals one quick game.)

The Big Country and I decided it was the time to break out what has now been infamously dubbed as "The-18-Beers-in-18-Half-Innings Debacle." The premiss is easy enough: Drink a beer for every half inning of a baseball game.

This was easily the worst drinking idea I have ever made. And I've made some bad ones.

Anyway, by the seventh inning I was beyond hammered. I entered rare air that afternoon (Oh yeah, it wasn't even 5 p.m. when we started). One of the final things I remember from that day was heaving violently in a filthy bathroom, but decided to finish off my spew session with one final yak in front of a number of people.

The looks I received were fit for only the worst of God's monsters. Really horrid stuff. I got what was so disgusting, but it's not like I beat one cat to death with another, bigger cat.

Here's my delusional point: I have seen many of you "normies" out there vomit in public, but I have never seen anyone get a look like I got that evening. It is often seen as a simple comedic foible for a regular person, but not for a fat guy.

Apparently, there's nothing more stomach turning than to watch a big barrel of a man heaving all over the floor. Which leads us to the real point of this post:

We, as members of the Fat Guy Coalition, must live with our own set of drinking rules.

Now that I think of it, the fat guy drinking rule book is a subject far too grand for just one post on the Fat Guy Report. But I like this start.

The point is simple: The boozing fat guy must understand there is nothing more unattractive than one of us stumbling around, slurring our words, and relieving ourselves in one gigantic belly blast in front of outsiders. 

You have to be twice the man of the regular drinking guy when you really are TWICE the man of a regular guy. That's Rule No. 1.

I (heart) pie.

The Godfather of the FGR Introduces the World to the SHED Theory

I've mentioned how one of the greatest things about being a fat guy is that every now and then you can become part of a fat guy crew. Well, one of the best crews I've ever been associated with is headed by the man known here as our Godfather — Bail $$$.

If there has ever been a fat guy that made fat guys the coolest men in the room, it's this lovable fat bastard. Anyway, after getting to spend some time with him out on the town this past weekend, I felt it only fitting to pass along what might be the single most impressive fat guy theory ever hatched.

You must first understand the four-headed monster that gave birth to this mind baby. You have Bail $$$ and his father — who will always be known in this forum as the man who bore Bail $$$. They were joined by two of the biggest, loudest, drinkingest, swearingest, kick-the-hell-out-of-anything-that-moves-just-because-there-was-nothing-better-to-do-est fat guys roaming God's green Earth: Billy Bob and Sac State Lane.

These men not only terrified every father in Northern California at some time during the past 50 years, but they also have the insane ability to mentally connect into the fat guy equivalent of Voltron. That is what happened on one particular night. That is why we have the SHED Theory.

Now, Blogger has a few vulgarity rules I like to follow, but I think every member of the Fat Guy Coalition will get what I'm talking about.

Imagine yourself driving down a stretch of road in any American suburb. It is, no doubt, blue collar. The front and back yards are big, and the men in these homes take pride when they wake up early on a Saturday morning to cut their own lawns.

The first house you drive by has a small, plastic tool shed in the back. It is obviously cheap. It lacks any fortitude, but tries to look nice to fool a prospective buyer. Inside, well, as you would expect, is a tiny, unsatisfying push mower. It takes a lot just to get the smallest of jobs completed.

The next yard has a little bigger structure peaking it's flimsy aluminum roof out from above the fence. It's a little more massive than his neighbor's plastic shed, but it is still crudely manufactured. There was no time spent on this backyard embarrassment, as you can see from the missing wooden slats. He mows his lawn with a gas-powered machine. However, it is quite rusty and always has trouble starting.

Now, as for the third man ... what can I say? He has a towering, beautiful structure in his yard. It is hand built and massive. The sides have been constructed with care and artistry. It has big barn doors and even windows. It is hand painted and the roof looks better than the one he has on his own home. Within this gigantic structure is a top-of-the-line riding lawn mower. Cutting the grass on this mechanical marvel is more relaxing than a beach vacation.

You see. This man has the most magnificent tool in the neighborhood. And when you have the best tool around, you have to build a strong, but more importantly, large dwelling for it.

The point of the SHED Theory is — whether it is a man or a lawnmower — a bigger shed houses a bigger (and better) piece of equipment.

I (heart) pie.

Pop Culture's Greatest Fat Guy

Much like the Over/Under Waistline debate, Pop Culture's Greatest Fat Guy will become a running debate each guest will have to weigh in on when they stop by the Fat Guy Report. For me, this was no easy task. The Godfather, Homer Simpson, Fred Flinstone, and Minnesota Fats were all possibilities. 

However my final selection seemed to be staring me in the face from the very beginning. When I was a young fat guy — a fat guy in training if you will — there was one character on one of my father's favorite shows that always made me feel better about the giant man I was to become.

Norm Peterson from Cheers.

Now, it's a dated reference I know. There are plenty of fat guys I could have selected who are more developed in our collective conscious, but no fat guy has ever been revered in my household like Norm.

There was something splendid about a man being welcomed by an illustrious roar whenever he entered a room. (Remember when this show was on. I was very young and didn't really get the concept of a bar. It was just a place all his friends were at all the time.)

The shout of "NORM!" which rang through the grandiose tavern every time that perfectly shaped fat guy waltzed through the door made me comfortable in my own increasingly lose-fitting skin.

Looking back on those moment all these years later, it was probably the first instance of me being alright with me. Once I was in high school, and especially in college, I was able to surround myself with people who no longer used fat jokes as elementary slights, but as innocent gestures amongst friends.

Well, as a tiny little round ball, fat jokes were never friendly. But I saw the self-deprecating humor of Norm. He was having fun with his weight and his shape.

He was truly the ideal fat guy. He was big, and in no way could hide that fact. Instead of feeling down, he just made jokes and never let anyone get the better of him. As I watched the show on reruns later in life, he also made fun of his job, wife and the fact he was, by all accounts, an unabashed alcoholic. 

In many ways he was just a normal guy. Yes, he was a fat guy, but he faced more troubles associated with men of any size and was undeterred in his own pursuits. He was — and in many ways still is — a model for what a fat guy should be.

He was nothing much more than a regular man who happened to be a fat guy. He loved being a fat guy and would never think of being anything different. 

His ideals are the same as the cornerstones of the Fat Guy Report. As we are a place where fat guys can be who we are, Norm was unapologetic in his own life.

He truly was a fat guy for the ages.

I (heart) pie.