Let’s face it, you either a) Used to have it and lost it, or b) Never had it to start with. Regardless, you don’t have it now, and you’re grossing out America one buttery treat at a time. Your years of pounding Coors originals and spreading your legs for the volunteer border guard patrol has rendered you used more than an Sudanese child’s flyswatter.
Your life has been reduced to wearing “these-used-to-fit-me-3-kids-and-6-slices-of-pizza-ago” camo pants with a vagomach ([vuh-juhm-uhk] A vagina stomach. See: FUPA but grosser) exploding out of them like a cloud of ash from Mount Vesuvius.; and quite frankly, the residents of Pompeii were lucky. Their explosion killed the whole population while we still have to live and look at you.
No one cares about your struggles in life and how you used to be attractive but you can’t maintain yourself anymore or that you have a glandular problem that causes you to swell up like a blowfish with AIDS… All that we care about is that you cover yourself up and then we’ll talk about what we can do. Until then, your silhouette will remind me of a rubber band around the Goodyear blimp.
What was once a “Bret Michaels dream come true” has degraded as poorly as the styrafoam coolers in the alley where you gave your first rim job. Congratulations, your mid body now resembles the spare tire on your 1984 El Camino.