I so need to turn up — or take — a picture of myself cooking or something. Because I totally need an Agent of O.B.E.S.I.T.Y. poster of my own.
See, New York Mayor Bloomberg proposed rule about soda sizes in restaurants — which is fat shaming and classist and a complete fucking stunt that achieves nothing at all — and there was this completely awful, thoroughly fat-shaming thread at Feministe about it (no, I won’t link to it) on which someone called soda an “agent of obesity”. And Brian over at Red No. 3, who I totally have a blog crush on (even if he does link to Melissa McEwan), decided that O.B.E.S.I.T.Y. must be an agency like S.H.I.E.L.D., and decided it meant Operatives Built with Exceptional Size, Imperiling Thinness’ Yoke. He dubbed himself Nick Fatty, came up with a logo, and was off and running. People started coming up with their own codenames — like Captain HAMerica, Fatman, Fatty Pryde, Chub Rub, and more — and he made some posters for people who sent him their pictures. He even put shirts with the logo up on his Cafe Press site.
But it’s the Twitter tag where the most funny lives. Tweets like:
“Do you expect me to talk?” “No, Mr. Bond. I expect you to dine.”
Our battalion of agents with hypertension are called the “Silent Killers”.
You will know the wrath of O.B.E.S.I.T.Y. when an army of fatties in CPAP masks strike. We call them our sleeper agents.
I, of course, already have my superhero/supervillain name. I signed on as the Mad Gastronomer, adding that I am whipping up tasty new treats guaranteed to PACK ON THE POUNDS.
I don’t actually have anything important to say about it. If you want to read some thoughts on why it’s important for fatties to sometimes crack jokes about this shit, FatHeffalump, aka The Incredible Bulk, can help you out. Personally, I’m just going to sit back and laugh my fat ass off.