When you reach this point, you can’t stop people from photographing you.
First off, full disclosure: the National Evil is in no way skinny, slender, or svelte (this last defined as both slender and elegant, which seems unfair to the merely thin—does this imply that the thin are also inelegant? Slovenly? Piggish?). He would describe himself more along the lines of a grizzly in his prime: taut with muscles, a little padding for the winter, scraps of raw salmon dangling from his teeth.
Now that we’ve got that out of the way, check out this headline:
700-Pound Man Hopes to Stand for Wedding
And this snippet:
His most recent attempt to escape the house—to attend Solis’ 38th birthday party in March—fell through when a flatbed tow truck brought to transport his reinforced bed got caught beneath an underpass.
There are endless jokes one could make here. Maybe something about how the bride doesn’t have to worry about the groom sneaking out of the church through a bathroom window. But that would be cruel, and we’re not about cruelty here at the Evil. The Evil is all about love.
And it’s love that makes the Evil wonder: how does one get to the point of weighing 700 pounds? Wouldn’t your friends and family have staged an intervention? Or, when you were no longer able to feed yourself, began slowly starving you back to a functional weight?
This isn’t about the national obesity epidemic. This isn’t about appearance or body fascism. Kate Moss makes us sick! But when you can’t stand . . . that’s problematic, no?
The Evil enjoys a good meal. (Refer to this post concerning all-you-can-eat seats.) And he has no delusions that, given the right combination of unhealthy foods, psychological pressures, and a lifetime supply of delicious Duke’s mayonnaise, he couldn’t gain several hundred pounds in a matter of months. The question, then: what’s the threshold at which you, the Friends of Evil (a.k.a. FOEs), would try to put a stop to this? 400 pounds? 500?
Promise you’ll let him know. If the tomatoes don’t kill him first . . .