Gourmandghast

Sometimes I imagine how simple life would be if I was a glass of stout. I’d get poured. Left a bit to allow head to settle. Admired by the buxom server. My malts and barleys all generously mixed into a heady punch. Then I’d get tossed back and swallowed until the only signs of my existence would be a beer stain on the mahogany counter, a burp, and a little brackish me at the bottom of the glass. But I’d be done. And enjoyed.

So, the obesity epidemic is swelling from continent to continent. We’ve had our Age of Reason, Enlightenment, the Industrial Revolution, the nuclear revolution, the Web years of our great obsession, and now it’s The Age of Flab. And as the corpulence swells so the mind shrinks. Bad situation to be in. I’ve put on a few pounds myself from being sedentary and being an epicurean, but while I enjoy food I just don’t overeat. So what’s with everyone else? Does the enjoyment of food now equate with gourmandism? Is the only way humanity can indulge is to pig out as if life were a trough?

I see a future not of an utopia or a dystopia but one of torpor. Sloth-like beings. Women the size of flabby walruses. Men like hippos. And there would be decrees ordered from fat caliphates the world over to hunt out and murder all the trim. For these pariahs would be seen as being unclean and dangerous. Thinkers, rebels, bodies of dissent. They’d be hunted down not by the corpulent, of course, but starved out, or banished, or set afloat on old hulks to survive. Or the corpulent would capture them, castrate the men, tie the tubes on the women, and inject some kind of fat derivative, some kind of genetically modified fat compound, into their bodies that wouldn’t alter them physically but would encapsulate their minds in a flabby, fatty substance that would make them dull and obedient. Then these Fat Scabs would be used to hunt down the trim, boil them in fat and bring their heads back from a display on platters, like boar with apples in mouths.

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