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'I'm stuffed...'
Thats how Mr Creosote finishes his banquet for 100 (on his own). And he looked it. I feel like it. Have you ever eaten so much you can't move, you sit there, beached like a fat sea creature stuck on the sand, incapable of moving. This is when it dawns on you - you've turned into a fat bastard. You manage to put this out of you mind somehow, after all, you have just eaten, and you don't really seem so fat - not in your big ol' baggy shirt.
But later on, you perchance to look down when your sitting in the bath, no sign of Mr winky, just 3 spare tires hanging over, your inflated gussted flopping inbetween your legs and obscuring your deflated manhood.
You still don't beleive it though. Best try out your suit. You can even get the leg in anymore, which is a travesty since you only bought the damn thing last week. It was fine then. Slipped on easliy, even with space to spare. But now, look at you, it can't even get as high as your thigh, let alone pullung to button towards its whole. No, this is a dead loss.
You vow to go on a deit, and actually start. You look at all the other handsome, slim young men. You are still thinking about them a couple of hours later - whilst ramming another lamb chop down your throat. What can you do? A man should enjoy his food after all, shouldn't he. And isn't the site of a well fed guy very appealing?
In the end, you buy a new suit - with room to spare - go back to the resturant, and say to the charming freench waiter: I'll 'ave the lot.
Thats how Mr Creosote finishes his banquet for 100 (on his own). And he looked it. I feel like it. Have you ever eaten so much you can't move, you sit there, beached like a fat sea creature stuck on the sand, incapable of moving. This is when it dawns on you - you've turned into a fat bastard. You manage to put this out of you mind somehow, after all, you have just eaten, and you don't really seem so fat - not in your big ol' baggy shirt.
But later on, you perchance to look down when your sitting in the bath, no sign of Mr winky, just 3 spare tires hanging over, your inflated gussted flopping inbetween your legs and obscuring your deflated manhood.
You still don't beleive it though. Best try out your suit. You can even get the leg in anymore, which is a travesty since you only bought the damn thing last week. It was fine then. Slipped on easliy, even with space to spare. But now, look at you, it can't even get as high as your thigh, let alone pullung to button towards its whole. No, this is a dead loss.
You vow to go on a deit, and actually start. You look at all the other handsome, slim young men. You are still thinking about them a couple of hours later - whilst ramming another lamb chop down your throat. What can you do? A man should enjoy his food after all, shouldn't he. And isn't the site of a well fed guy very appealing?
In the end, you buy a new suit - with room to spare - go back to the resturant, and say to the charming freench waiter: I'll 'ave the lot.
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