You Fat Bastard.

So I went to the Doctors the other day. He isn’t your stock standard GP either is my doctor, no I see a specialist because I’m special.

That doesn’t make him any more punctual than a GP mind you, although he has gotten better since the days I used to walk out on him for keeping me waiting an hour. Back then I’d wait for all the other hopeless cases like me to be seen by him only to get up and walk out minutes after sitting down in his office. It was like chess with he and I; a battle of strategy and wit.

Now days the wait is broken up by a few tasks that I have to do pre-consultation like blowing hard and heavy into a device that measures just how weak and feeble my lungs actually are. I do this three times and usually come very close to passing out, only to find my vital lung capacity has barely changed since the last time I was there. Talk about my iron lung.

Then I get weighed and it really is the money shot of the afternoon because it’s the most important of the lot, but not necessarily in a good way. It’s so important I will pucker my anus the entire morning leading up to the appointment, just so as not to loose a couple of hundred grams. I also have to try and remember if I had my keys and phone in my pocket last time because if so they should be weighed again. Hey every little bit counts.

Now those who know me will probably have noticed I am not quite All Black physique. Well not in this day and age where they are excellent weightlifters first, rugby players second, but back when Terry Wright played rugby people mistook us all the time despite him being in his mid twenties with a stache and me, nine.

I was a whole 2kgs lighter this time round which is great if you’re competing to be the biggest loser but not for me, so given my fast approaching runway model weightlessness I agreed to meet with the dietitian.

Normally I don’t meet with dietitians because if there’s one thing I know its how to eat. I always think that being a dietitian must be a depressingly sad job most of the time because you’re only ever going to be dealing with two types of people; the morbidly obese or the morbidly thin. Imagine throwing a party for that lot.

However this time I caved due to Mrs ClubDes being there with me and who rather strangely, doesn’t subscribe at all to the theory that I know it all. I don’t know why, I’m always telling her how I do. Anyhoo, I was pleasantly surprised because said dietitian turned out to look like Amy Adams and who doesn’t want to be told how to eat by her?

Not that I really listened to watch she said because, well, she looks like Amy Adams, but I did gain one titbit of info; that the powdered high calorie drinks I make myself daily should be a lot stronger than I’ve been making them so there you go, never let it be said I don’t follow instructions well.

Thus the end result of this story is that I’m now part of the wankers club at work, one of the many guys who walk around shaking a powdered drink in a manner that says ‘I’m so buff I can unwrap a Mintie with my buttocks, because I drink this powdered shit’. Only theirs are drinks called ‘Ripped’, ‘Shredded’ and ‘Mega Muscle’, whilst mine looks like baby formula.

I mix mine in a Celebrity Slim shaker too, just to really shit up those around me who think I should ‘fatten up’.

It’s ironic though, that like so much of my spectacular life, I just don’t fit with society on the whole weight thing. Whilst the rest of you fat bastards are counting your calories and buying 97% fat free everything, I have to try and eat like a fat kid at a party, all day, every day. And trust me, I fucken do.

And yet, I still look like Terry Wright. Oh well.

Terry was a skinny man amongst men.

The Dog Has Bigger Balls Than I

Another moment of groundbreaking television took place last night when, right slap bang in the middle of your average households meal time we were bought the news item on Muzza, the dog that had his man berries removed. Which in itself is nothing to report on but just in case you hadn't regurgitated all that you'd eaten at this stage, we got to see him have implants tacked on in their place.

Now I could start on a serious thing about just how this shit gets on the news ahead of any number of world events that are far more newsworthy, but I won’t. Instead, let me ask of you a few pertinent questions:

a) Do you walk around looking dog’s bollocks?
b) If you do would you then own up to being someone who checks out dogs balls by pointing out that you've just seen one that doesn't have any?
c) Even if you did do all of the above, do you think the dog that you've just seen without any gives a shit?

Who thinks this shit up, I mean really? Who decided that there was a market for silicon testes on dogs? Emasculated owners who worry that a lack of plums on their pets might reflect badly on people’s opinions of theirs, that’s who. Hey, these teabags wouldn't fly if there wasn't a market for them would they? And so there we have it, final proof then that pet worship has finally crossed the boundary of compulsive obsessive to downright disturbing.

The only thing that could make this any worse is if we were to presume that the reason the guy wants his four legged friend to have gnad implants is so that he can feel them banging against his............nah, lets not go there.

Now admittedly I'm awfully fond of our two cats but I'm not so obsessed with their well being that I'm about to attach a couple of ping pong balls between their legs. Especially not on our female cat and not just because she's a girl, but because it's just too fucken much. It's a sad day when our own physical neuroses are passed to our pets. What's next aye, false teets on bitches?

Maybe I'm just a little 'teste' about testes. I think it all harks back to the day I was visiting the type of medical facility - for reasons we won't go into - where a fella can whack one out into a cup and not only will he not get into trouble for it, he'll be thanked for not spilling any over the side! Incidentally the set up at these types of places is usually a lazy boy off in a small room with a selection of stick mags and a box of tissues. Tough break if print porn is not your thing but great news if you have a tissue fetish.

I actually stumbled upon the room when looking for the toilet because strangely enough it makes up part of the mens room - you walk through the mastabatorium to get to the pisser. Funny thing was after finding the reading material next to the tissues I didn't really need to go pee any more....

But the real highlight of the visit was the consultation with some doctor whose name escapes me – probably due to the traumatic moment I am about to describe - but I suspect it was either 'Fingers' or 'Peter File'. His party trick was a surprise teste inspection that he decided would be prudent 10 minutes into our consultation and even before I could quip something witty like 'Doc I thought you were crazy but now I can see you're nuts', he had mine in his hands which the bastard never washed before he started.

To add insult to injury he made some passing comment about them being smaller than usual but to this day I stand by my reasons for them being so which were threefold; it was cold in his office, I had a massive pube on and yours would be too if some guy you had only just met started fondling yours.

Maybe I should think about implants....