I'm glistening like a beached whale, stranded and marooned, gooey and gunky, icky fatso, high and dry.
I'm coming and going like an airship, full of gas and gut lard, with cancer cells gelling from the gristle and slime. It's obvious why no-one loves a fatso.
I'm oozing into rooms like a ton of blubber bricks, pinfeet wedged under sag-arse, with chins flowing like whipped cream. Beefburgers and fries pushing through the gastric drop. Huffing and puffing, feeling the cardiac strain; ventricles like taut rope, finger like spongy soap, rubbery lips and jambon legs, it's easy to see why no-one loves a fatso.
I'm a methane man, wobbling in reverse with ever-growing rolls of tub belly, retching over stretched belt. Sensitive but obscene, obese and temperamental, it is obvious why no-one loves a fatso.
Picture: Tumisu
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