Fat Clothes

I’m a Pimp. At least I think I am, I’m a pimp with no ho’s for sure but as far as pimpin goes, I have always admired the mannerisms of a pimp. I have always strolled down the street, a little to the right, with a kinda roll like I don’t gotta be nowhere but right there. I speak with an urban inflection that is a combination of Teamster and Tony Schmidt with a Huggy Bear finish. I tried to treat my wife Spring Devinne, like a pimp would treat one of his “bitches” and Spring not only put a lump on my head so big, I looked like John Merrick the Elephant Man but I awoke from a slumber to find her threatening me like I was John Wayne Bobbit. Scared the shit out of me. There is more to that girl power thing than I had originally thought. In the spirit of all that is pimpin though, I like pimp clothes and have always had a deep urge to wear some big assed rattlesnake boots with a silver toe cap and silver heel. A mandarin orange three-piece Hugo Boss suit with a big matching fur brim Urban Stetson with leopard hat band. Floor length white Angora coat died the most wonderful shade of purple. 18k Omega watch. 8 Platinum and diamond, ruby, sapphire and emerald rings, spelling out BIGWAYNO from right pinky to left pinky. And I would have a Pimp Stick. A cane with a solid sterling knob on the end of it, you know with a little weight behind it for keepin all the haters in line, ya know what I’m sayin bitches? And don’t think I won’t knock a few Mo Fos out, and if I can’t put my Pimp Stick on your ass, I would have an antique Mother of Pearl and gold straight razor in my boot ala’ Bad Bad Leroy Brown. My lime green, 1976 Cadillac Eldorado convertable with the faux zebra print seat covers, neon green fur dash holding my 5000 watt Kenwood changer and 12 inch Hi Def moniters on the back of my headrests. 1 dozen Bazookas in my trunk just to let some Mo Fos know that I am about to come around the corner. And the frosting on the cake….. One big ass gold tooth, right in front so when I smile, everyone can see my gold tooth display! And believe me, I could have $1 total to my name, gas tank at 1/8, but in my pimp gear, I would be smiling. All the girlies and all the Willie Lump Lump lookin straight assed fools would wanna be with me cuz I am a Pimp! I got no money and I got no Ho’s but I am the coolest mutha on the stroll!

Heres the problem though. First off, I can’t even afford the 1/8 tank of gas, let alone any of the rest of the gear. If I could afford it though, my wife would never let me leave the house looking like that unless it was Halloween. If I did make it out of the house though, everyone I know would laugh at me, really really hard. No one would take me seriously and then I would have to put my Pimp Hand down on their asses and then I’d probably end up in the hospital, the crazy hospital in Elgin or Manteno. And the biggest detractor in my pimp world is that I am a fat ass. Hugo Boss don’t make fat clothes. A floor length Angora jacket died the most amazing shade of purple only exists for a regular sized pimp, not a giant pimp like I would be. My Sharp Dressed Man options are very very limited. I can get some fat clothes at Wal-Mart and that’s because Wal-Mart has its roots steeped in the Sausage and Bacon eating south. Where Pecan Pie, Fried Twinkies and Funnel Cakes are considered elegant fare, served at weddings and State Fairs. Where lard is the preferred “spread” and margarine is a basterdized name for Marge and 1 in 3 people are clinically obese. Wal-Mart is the official distributer for The George Foreman Line of clothes. Its Wal-Marts Big and Tall selection. It surprises me that George Foreman is a black dude, yet his clothing line is so conservatively white it is comical. I am sure, as country dumb as old George seems, he is laughing all the way to the bank that he built selling the George Foreman Grill. So, I am not going to look like a pimp shopping at Wal-Mart. I might look like a big fat assed mortician though. Forget K-Mart and Target. The only thing pimp in them two is the pimp in the Grand Theft Auto Game they sell in the video game section. Really, there is only two options if you are a fat ass and you want to look sharp and that is, find a good tailor, give him a blank check and have your Pimp Gear custom-made, or you go to Casual Male Big and Tall. It is a chain like Lane Bryant is for big girls except it is for your “fuller bottomed” males. They are all over the country and if you need some fat clothes in a hurry, you are only an hour from one anywhere in the country. I guess that does not bode well for the American Male if, as a sign of the times, you can find a Casual Male fat boy store easier than you can find a Ballys Total Fitness.

Chain stores are all the same, There is a corporate office that serves as a model for every store. Wal-Marts is in Arkansas. You can find the same exact shit in Wal-Mart in California as Wal-Mart in New York. The only difference is the local sports teams. Wal-Mart in Chicago sells Cubs and Sox hats and jerseys and Wal-Mart in Wisconsin sells Green Bay Packer crap. you can get a Big Mac anywhere in the world now. You get the picture right. Well I was in Casual Male a few weeks ago, looking for some new gear as I was going out to an event with my wife and I wanna look good for her and besides, new clothes are good for a self-esteem boost. As most know, and if you didn’t, I have been down for the count for almost a year and this was going to be my first time out since I got sick last September. I wanted to look Pimp good and I had a hundred bucks that says I was gonna make some fools jealous when I hit the street. It was painfully obvious, that I had not been shopping for clothes in a while. I was looking through some shirts that I really liked and they were all in the $70 range. Now, I have seen these same exact shirts online for $30 but since I am a fat ass, they can double the price plus %20. It is not the extra material as that cost is negligible, maybe $10 at best. It is not the extra labor since most clothes are manufactured in third or fourth world sweatshops that pay tweens, illiterate single moms and old ladies who are virtually unemployable in any other endeavor, 60 cents a day plus a bowl of swill and rice. No, those shirts cost what they cost because I am a chubby hubby. They price shit like that because they can, it’s whatever the market will bear and if you’re the size of a bear, you are going to pay a premium. Fat people will not complain because they are fat and most fat people don’t want to draw attention to themselves. Even though you don’t want to draw attention to yourself, if you are a fuller figure person you are going to stand out like you have a one of those paper Burger King crowns on your fat head. I have spent my whole life as an insecure person thanks to a family that always made me feel like I was special. Because of that, I have done my best to be the class clown in school, to be tuffer than the next guy and fighting all the time and trying to be the best at whatever it was that I was doing. Being fat has been relatively new to me but I am secure in my life so it never bothered me that much… Until it got in the way of my Pimp dreams. I ended up with a Stacey Adams Shirt, two-tone, kinda fifties lookin, Bad Ass, Ban Lon or polyester or some other petroleum based cloth, 3xl tall. $87.00. That shirt took me out of the new pants running but it was long enough to cover up an old pair of jeans. Man that shirt is nice, Plus it has a nice slimming effect too. The shirt and one of my bad ass Kangols. I was not gonna be in my Hugo Boss fantasy but I think I am gonna get some doubletakes from the girlies and that’s gonna make Ms. Devinne stand that much closer to me and that’s all I want.

So, we went to a Moth Storytelling event the other day. The oldest and best friend that I have ever had in life is named Robert Good and I mean this dude is like my brother. We grew up together and ate some of the same shit life tends to give people. Well he convinced me that I could tell a story. I mean a real story, not like Mary Poppins, but stories about life man, real life. He thinks I am good at it and I value this brothers opinion like no other. My wife and a few others have enjoyed my little campfire tales over the years as much as I have enjoyed telling them but my bro, who originally turned me on to the Moth, convinced me to take my bullshit to the next level. I did a little bit of research and, I have found out that a person, with a skill like that can, possibly, with a little luck, make a living writing stuff like that. I went on the Moth website, listened to a few dozen stories, some good, most shit and I wanted to go and hear this live so I copped a pair of tix for me and My wife, the Lovely Spring Devinne. My wife always looks good and I feel like I don’t even belong in the same room as her sometimes. Thats why I wanna look my best, mostly for her but just a little bit for my Pimp Delusion (I guess that’s what it is, a delusion). So off we go, pimpin ain’t easy but it sure is fun.

We get to the club where the Moth is holding their event a bit early so in we go and we secure a spot fairly close to the stage. I am happy because I can see and I can hear and I can feel the electricity in the air like there is before any concert you have been to. My baby looks good and people are talking and it just feels good to be out and not in my Lazy Boy with my leg up. I am in some pain right now and I left my house without any meds but at this point I am feeling pimpalicious, looking good and ready to view the competition for my future. When I said I was early, I meant like two hours early and I have been sitting in a small weird chair for over an hour now. I feel like it is a chair that was purchased for short money and not made to be burdened by a guy with my girth, depth and size. I am afraid it may very well explode right out from under my fat ass and I will end up on my back with the hundred or so people behind me roaring in laughter. Now that would be a story for me to tell at a later date but it would be really funny for them people behind me. I want you to laugh with me not laugh at me. Because of that I have to sit all weird and that is causing pressure on my leg which is fucked up anyhow. The pain level is now at a respectable 6.5 on the O. U. Chithurts pain scale and I either need to get my leg up, elevated or I need some opiates, strong ones. Block it out Pimp, block it out. I close my eyes and refocus in my special place. The place where you go when you have no relief. Meditate, refocus. While in my painkill mode, I keep hearing people cheering for someone. Saying Hey Danny Boy how are you, male voices, female voices. cross talking, chatter. All Danny Boy. I think I can now pick his voice out of the crowd, a call out to “Danny Boy”, a response. How are you baby, gimme a hug, I hear the smack of a kiss. More Danny chat. Without looking, I can now pick him out of a line up. I listen to this popular mother talk to everyone in the place. In my mind’s eye I am seeing George Clooney or Tom Cruise or some other popular prom king looking guy. Everyone knows him, everyone loves him, shoot, for all I know he could be Dan freekin Rather.

As I sit here, waiting for the main event, I look at my wife, who is looking absolutely stunning in a Blue v-neck cotton shirt, blue plaid capris and blue tevas and she can see something in me. She is looking at me and after thirteen years together, she can read me like a headline and that headline says….. My Husband Is In Pain. She puts her hand , warm and soft on my cheek and at that moment I can think of nothing more comforting or soothing and somehow, I can feel the pain move up my leg, through my loins, my chest, my neck and out of my face. I feel better, mostly. So, I’m a pimp, albeit a soft one, easily melted by the touch of my main girl. I feel better and I know it is temporary so in an attempt to head off the next round of misery, I ask my wife if she wanted a drink, you know, something a bit raw, like some Bourbon or some Tequila (we were already having a coke), Makers Mark she agrees. I can still hear ‘ol Danny Boy chatting up the room but I need to get up and move around so I get up and see that the place is pretty full. It is darker behind me and my eyes need to adjust. I have recently spent $350.00 on some pimp glasses so, as my eyes adjust to the light I can really see the detail of people’s faces and there’s nothing wrong with my hearing and I am looking at the bar and hearing people talking and I can also hear Danny yakking away and then BOOM!!! I see this jerk off as he turns and sees me and for what seemed like an eternity we stare at each other, not five feet away he stands. I can hear the gears turning in his head as he stares at me. I know what he did. I can see what he was doing, like a psychic or a reader or seer or some kind of mystic gypsy. I can see exactly what he did before he left his house. I can hear the conversation he was having with his roommate Bruno or Josh or some other faggot who is always late with his half of the rent.

He is standing in front of the mirror that him and roomie glued to the wall by the front closet. It is the only mirror in the house except for the one on the medicine cabinet. He is admiring his jew-fro goatee combo. He pulls up a pair of old Tommy Hilfiger jeans and takes a deep breath, exhales fully and sucks in his enormous belly and tries to button his jeans, fails and tries again successfully. Smiling at himself, he tells roomie that tonight is going to be the night. He intends on telling the story about the time that Johnny Michaelbyckle was sitting on the mailbox when the mailman came and how that all panned out except he was going to embellish a bit for effect. He was smugly admiring himself when he reached over to the back of the brown chair, the one that Michelle Clifton gave him a handjob in. He reached over and grabbed his new shirt, It was a Bad Ass Stacey Adams two-tone number with a kinda fifties feel and pulled it over his rather ample tits and belly and buttoned it. He had purchased the 4xl tall size so he would have extra room in it. He turned to the side and sucked his gut in and said, “that’s right, I’m a pimp”.

Spring finally said it. “Wayne, whats goin on”? Why did we have to leave? I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth so I just said that it was my leg hurting. As I said though, she reads me like a headline and after thirteen years together, she knew to leave it alone. On the way home, I could tell she was a bit hungry and we stopped at this little place we like to eat at for some dinner. Our favorite waitress was working and Spring ordered her usual meal. BLT club, fries well done and a coke. Our waitress looked at me and smiled, “the usual”? “No, I think I’ll just have a salad”. This pimps on a diet.


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