Once upon a time there was a kid. A kid who loved to eat. Not unlike many kids, really. But this kid was different. He didn't just enjoy the occasional cookie or bowl of ice-cream. Or burger and fries.
No, he lived for food. And when he wasn't eating, he was thinking about eating. At school he struggled to concentrate in class because he was always fantasizing about his next meal. Food equaled pleasure — and who wouldn't want an instant 'pleasure fix'?
So easy, so convenient, so accessible and so... instant. He was the poster boy for the quick-fix generation. By the time the kid was five, he was fat. By the time he was seven, he was really fat. Fortunately for him though, it wasn't real fat; it was puppy-fat.
His loving mother had taught him all about puppy-fat.
It was a temporary condition which affected some boys and girls. She told him that when he got to a certain age, it would all go. So that was kinda comforting. Temporary fat... okay.
Nothing to really worry about.
Although the kids at school didn't really buy into his mum's (mom's) whole puppy-fat theory. They came more from the "hey, you're a big fat pig and we don't wanna play with you" school of thought. While the taunting got him down at times, a chubby little finger in the peanut butter jar always proved to be somewhat therapeutic and relieve his pain. Food was his escape.
"How do they squeeze all that pleasure into one little jar?" he would ask himself. "So much peanut butter and so little time," he would joke with his family. They always laughed at his jokes. Always supportive. They loved him so much.
"He is so funny and creative," his parents would tell their friends.
"And gigantic," the friends would be thinking.
By the time he was twelve he was huge. Morbidly obese. And according to dear-old mum, still in the puppy-fat phase. She still loved to cook for her "little boy" because it was one of the few things that "gave him pleasure". And making him happy made her happy. And a happy home is a good home.
Article comments