I received your letter dated July 9th, 08 and I must say I was more than a little surprised. The mere fact that I’m still able to hold a pen between my cheeks should show you that I’m still ahead of the game. I’m not perfect. But, to be quite honest, I don’t know what you expect. Do you think I’m some sort of miracle worker? I feel as though you completely blocked out the past year heretofore referred to as “The Year Of Eating Dangerously.” What happened to your resolve not to eat so many sugary snacks? Did I hold a gun to your head all the times you finished off your daughter’s macaroni and cheese? I have an agreement with Kraft that all products you consume will come straight to me, do not pass stomach, thighs or hips. That cheesy goodness is all mine. What about the six packs of pudding you put away in one sitting? Speaking of six packs, what’s up with your beer consumption? All that beer is not doing me any favors. Could you a least try a lite beer?
Am I getting through to you? Am I making any headway at all? I’m not angry with you as you suggest. In fact, I’ve never been happier. All that working out you used to do was making me tired, stressed and tightly wound. Sure you were happier, but I was shrinking away to nothing.
You know what? I don’t like your tone with me either. You treat me like a leper. You ignore me and try to hide me from the world with your bathing suits with little skirts or “boy shorts.” Do you think you’re fooling anyone? I’m not going to respond favorably to that kind treatment. Why don’t you start appreciating me a little more. Rub a firming cream on there once in awhile – do an isometric for crying out loud. Acknowledge my existance!
Plus, not to toot my own horn but black men love me!
So, in closing, I’m fine with myself. If you have a problem, I suggest that you do something about it. In the future, please direct your comments and/or complaints to your brain because that’s where the motivation is. Bitch.
Your Ass (and that’s Mr. Ass to you)
Can you believe my ass called me a bitch?