A Discourse on Relative Aesthetics

The following is excerpted from the collected correspondence of Mssrs. Bobcat and Professor Mouth.

Bobcat writes:


"Give Me Bobcat at Age Ten, and I Will Give You a God. Give Him to Me at Age Twenty-Nine, and I'll Give You a Kinda Fat Guy." -- John B. Watson

I was watching VH1's Celebrity Fit Club , and I noticed that the cunning Biz Markie , at 344 lbs, has 27.2% body fat . Here's the thing: I'm 204 lbs, and I'm 23.7% body fat. Statistics like this made me get a comprehensive personal fitness evaluation today. Because I'll be damned if I'm out-fatted by Biz Markie.

I got to my scheduled meeting place at 2 pm on the dot, although I have to say, I had a reservation going in: I didn't know how much this was going to cost. Now, when I contacted the group who supposed to give me this evaluation--let's just call them The Deflabbers--they sent me an email pdf file asking me a bunch of questions. Unfortunately, I couldn't find the price on the pdf file. So I send them an email, "How much will this cost?" The answer? "Read the brochure."

Now, all they needed to tell me is a number. But they wouldn't. Which made me nervous. Moreover, the brochure they sent me didn't have the price on it. So why not tell me? This mystery was dispelled when I got there: $145. Ah. That's why they wouldn't tell me.

In fairness to them, there was a brochure in their office that had the prices listed. But the office seems to be locked at all times, unless you're let in as a client, which of course you can't get let in as unless you've already agreed to pay.

To put this in simpler terms: I thought I saw a supermodel with a PhD in philosophy, but when I got up close, the supermodel turned out to be a wolverine, and its PhD was in sociology. Baited, and switched.*

Oh well, I was in there, and I did, as always, want to learn about myself, so I agreed to the damn program. What caused me another reservation, though, was that the guy was...well...kinda doughy-looking. I mean, he was probably more fit than I am, but I expect physical trainers or therapists to be, well, really, really fit.**

The first thing he did was to measure my fatness with a caliper . It lasted minutes, and took place in complete silence. I didn't think I was supposed to speak; I thought it would disturb the fat. He dispelled the silence first:

Doughy Fitness Guru: So, what do you do?
Me: I do philosophy. I also blog.
Doughy Fitness Guru: You know, I've heard that term a lot recently, but I don't know what it means.
Me: It's short for "web-log", which is like an online diary where you can talk about anything. Uh ... like a regular diary. Mine's about comedy, though.
Doughy Fitness Guru: Really? What kind of stuff do you talk about?
Me: Oh, things like this. In fact, I'll probably blog about this. My blog's URL is rgressis.blogspot.com.
Doughy Fitness Guru: Oh ... uh, really?
Me: Yeah. Don't worry, I won't use your real name.
Doughy Fitness Guru: I'd appreciate that.

You know, now that I think about it, I probably shouldn't call him "doughy".

Anyway, the results: My average fitness rank is 42, which means that 58% of men my age are more fit than I am. With 23.7% body fat, I am in the 18th percentile--which means that 82% of men my age have less body fat than I. Most surprising are my bench press and grip strength test results: I am in the 1st percentile for both, which means that 99% of men my age can lift more weight, and have a stronger grip. And I thought I gave good massages. On the other hand, I am in the 99th percentile for men my age with the legpress.

From now on, when someone asks me for a massage, I'm just gonna kick him in the face.

* -- The same thing once happened with a pair of shoes I bought. I went into to a shoe store to buy a pair of cool shoes that were on sale for $100.

Shoe Guy: What color do you want them in?
Me: I'll take the white and red ones.
Shoe Guy: Okay, try them on.
Me (grunting as I try on my shoes): grunt, grunt.
Shoe Guy: Hey! They fit! Let's ring you up.
Me: Okay.
Shoe Guy: That'll be $150.
Me: But the sign says they're on sale for $100!
Shoe Guy: Yes, but that's for those same shoes in grey and black.
Me: Well, I'll take the grey and black!
Shoe Bastard: I don't think we have any in your size.
Me (sighing): Fine.

Wanna know something sad? I was wearing those shoes today.

** -- Again, something like this has happened to me before: I was in Germany, meeting with a chiropractor. After a brief wait, I was led into his chambers, and I faced a 6'5", lanky German man with a buzzcut and, I kid you not, an incredibly crooked spine . He had some sort of lumbago walk, and looked at me with small, dark eyes filled with undisguised hatred of my back-health. I don't think he helped my posture.


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Professor Mouth Responds:

Dear Bobcat:


Don't be so hard on yourself. I know how you feel. I, like you, feel self-conscious about my appearance. And let me tell you, living in a fashionable Brooklyn neighborhood doesn't help. I may be proportionate and weigh well under a deuce, but compared to the underwear models who rule these streets, I'm unseemly.

When you're feeling like a schlump, people will often give you advice on how to get fit. You may have heard these platitudes before. Y'know, little gems of insight like:

"Try lifting weights!"

"Get a good night's sleep. It helps the metabolism."

"Try to drink less than a liter of rum a day."

"Hey! How about using your legs as a conveyance?"

Well, take it from me, buddy. Those little gems of insight? Horse shit. I mean, WALK? Like a fucking CHIMP? Fuck you, Confucius.

People who tell you to excercise don't get the point.

The point is not how fat you ARE. It's how fat you FEEL.

That's why, when I'm too fat for Brooklyn, I just go back to Dayton for a weekend. compared to those corn-fed fuckers, I'm Jude fucking LAW. As you pointed out, a personal trainer in Dayton can get by on simply being 'doughy'. Because dough is firmer than pudding, which is the foodstuff most analagous with the average midwestern midriff.

And what will I do if, god forbid, I ever swell to the point where I'm too fat for Dayton? Easy. I'll vacation in Samoa. I'll Spend a week running laps around those sloppy bastards, and then return home, flush with self- confidence. And here's the good news: If I can do it, you can do it.

But here's the bad news. Obviously, you're already too fat for Dayton. And if Biz Markie has better a better muscle-to-fat ratio, then Samoa's out. But don't worry, pal. There's still one option left.

That's right.
Pack your bags, you fat fuck.

You're going to Monster Island.



That's right, Monster Island. Who's going to make you feel insecure on Monster Island? Godzilla? Look at his fucking saddlebags! Look at his GUNT! Have you ever noticed that Godzilla has a FUCKING GUNT?!!

And forget about Godzilla Jr. Sure, his skin may be baby-soft. But for an amphibian, those are some awfully porcine jowls he's sporting.

Hey, do you often feel conspicuous at the buffet? Well you won't anymore.. Not once you've shared the salad bar with the voracious three heads of King Ghidorah! Not to mention that lardass, Megalon. WIDE LOAD comin' through!

Now I know what you're thinking: 'But Professor, Mothra looks pretty trim'. Well, I won't lie to you. Mothra's in pretty decent shape.

But Mothra's a homo.

And by homo standards, HE'S ENORMOUS!

So enjoy a couple of days on Monster Island, and feed the ol' self-esteem... for once. And if you get your picture taken, stand next to Titanosaurus.

He's got man-breasts.

Your Friend,
Mouth