The Emaciation Proclamation
The Emaciation Proclamation
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By Wes J. Pimentel
We’ve all noticed it. Everybody’s talking about it, so I might as well put in my two cents. There are tons of different body types out there. My personal favorite by far is the Hollywood-starlet-concentration-camp-victim.
I don’t see what all the hype is about. These ladies are doing everything in their power to look good for us and we just take it for granted; even worse, we criticize them for it. I’m sorry, America, but I agree with these ladies. I don’t think you can ever be skinny enough. If it takes some extra, unusual efforts to accomplish this ravishing appearance, then so be it. That’s why they get paid the big bucks.
I personally like a woman who can commit to something. If you’re forcing yourself to throw-up after meals, starving yourself, and have the initiative to convince yourself that no-matter-what you’re still fat, I don’t call that sick. I call that dedication. If on top of all that you’re taking drugs to ensure that there is no possible way for your body to form either fat cells or muscle fibers, you’re an over-achiever. Bravo! You go girl!
You can never be skinny enough. I don’t like to just kiss a woman down her spine. I like to actually count each vertebra, especially the last couple up top that connect to the skull. Now, that’s hot. There’s nothing sexier than being able to clearly see each of a woman’s two-hundred-plus bones. Maybe it’s because I’m an information junkie. Dating these women is like constantly being in anatomy class. Once I thought I was dealing with extremely defined abs. There was something weird about them though, like they were misshapen or something. Later I found out it was just her skin stretched over her internal organs. Ooh la la! It turns out I was actually kissing on her small intestine the whole time.
Even if you don’t like the look, I think you have to agree that there are some benefits to forcing your body to wither away, like the complete lack of strength, for example. I like a woman so emaciated, she gets a workout from coughing. I like a woman so debilitated by starvation she’s absolutely useless in bed. I like feeling like I’m [making love to] a mummy. If your body is desiccated to the point you have to be deathly afraid of wind, you’re the woman for me. If you fit the descriptions above, then look me up, you fat cow. (See? I know what they want to hear, too.)
They don’t want to hear that they’re perfect or that they’re beautiful. They want you to agree with their perceptual distortions and enable their neurotic behavior. No matter what you say, they’re going to tell themselves that you’re just trying to be nice. I say screw it. Just agree with her. Tell her she is fat. In fact, every time she expresses the desire to eat, cock your head to the side, raise your eyebrows and give her the “shame-on-you” look. If she ever actually eats something, make pig noises, or moo like a cow. That always gets ’em. She’ll probably run to the bathroom and puke right then. If my woman has absolutely no muscle or fat at all, I like to walk up, pinch a little skin on her mid-section and say, “Aww, that’s cute. My little sweety still has baby fat.”
The encouragement to maintain their self-destructive diet/exercise program can be more subtle, too. You can always (even if she weighs ninety pounds) buy her plus-sized clothing. If you’re flying coach, purchase a third seat right next to hers “just in case you need some extra room.” It’s expensive, but that little trick will buy you at least a month of binge exercising and purging. If you buy her a ring, choose a man’s size. When you tell her to buy a one-piece instead of a bikini, be sure you say something like, “C’mon, honey, nobody wants to see all that.” Every time the subject of your preferences for women comes up, make sure you always talk about your preference for big girls. Say stuff like, “I don’t know what it is, man. I just love fat girls!” Although your bulimic beau may cry herself to sleep most of the time, at least she’ll look like a spandex tarp stretched over a horse carcass, and who can resist that?
How far are we going to go with this? How much are we going to let these Hollywood chicks get away with? Are IV’s going to be the hottest new accessory? Is someone going to come out with extension cords in designer colors so these women can stylishly induce vomiting? Who the [heck] is encouraging this? I know there are people in Hollywood who see these leukemia patients walking around and say shit like, “You look fabulous!”
We need to take action, folks. We need to shift the balance. I say we start an organization of volunteers. This is how it’ll work: We’ll deploy small groups of people to walk around in Hollywood. All we have to do is have really dramatic reactions to seeing these puking pretties; preferably, reactions that will send them sprinting for a sandwich. Imagine a couple of guys on a corner, noticing a starved starlet. Instead of asking for an autograph, they just point and yell something like, “Ugh! What the [heck] is that?! Oh, they must be filming one of those zombie movies. That make-up is cool.” Or you could have a couple of girls do the terrified-horror-movie-blood-curdling scream and run away. I want to have a little girl with me. She could scream and say, “Daddy! A monster!” At which point I would scoop her up in a protective embrace and cut my eyes at the offending vomit vixen as if to say, “How could you?!” Finally, we’ll film one of those ‘save the children’ commercials, but instead of showing clips of starving, third-world kids, we’ll show clips of these stick-figure-starlets walking the red carpet. If we can, we’ll get the U.N. to parachute-drop palettes of rescue food on their Beverly Hills mansions. They might get the message, then.
It might take a while, but if we’re proactive about it, I believe we can have our Hollywood girls looking normal again. They need to understand that we demand body parts from our sex-symbols. Doesn’t that make sense? The red carpet is starting to look like a freak show. If I can pick you up with one hand and throw you at somebody, you’re too skinny. If Bruce Lee could have used you as a set of nun-chucks, you need to eat a sandwich. If Tiger Woods can stick you in his bag and shoot 18 holes with your ridiculous ass, you might want to consider not eating meth for breakfast. Hello? Kate? Nicole? Lindsay? Anybody? If your pelvis bone is the widest part of your body, I’m talking to you. You do not look good, you look like shit. You are repulsive and as soon as I get my activist network up and running, we’ll be storming Hollywood to let you know face to face. When we do, you better have a granola bar on you, or something, you fat cow.
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