… and It’s About Fucking Time!
by Joe Buonfiglio
“Dad bods” are in?
Portly, pudgy, rotund, corpulent, “Don’t stare at the poor man, honey!” beach moment, “Maybe backing off the carbs a little wouldn’t hurt, huh?” dad bods are the new definition of sexy? You’re not shitting me? This is a thing? A real, honest-to-God you swear on the lives of your children and may your genitals become encrusted with fizzing fetid glitter-glue if you’re lying thing? Dad bods?
HELL YES! It’s about fucking time, too!
I can loosen the old belt and sigh with relief as civilization finally recognizes that the human male form in a natural, non-Madison Avenue-manipulated state is a beautiful thi— No seriously, you’re not just yanking my chain here, are you? I’m a fragile flower when it comes to my depressingly horrific body image, so don’t fuck around. If this is some sort of prank on a societal scale with a massive “Gotcha!” moment en route, I could easily wind up spending the next month in bed around the clock mindlessly rocking in a fetal position, unbathed and smeared with my own feces, clutching a bottle of Irish whiskey at all times and mumbling “Thank you for waiting. Customer service representatives are busy helping other customers. They will get to your call in the order it was received. Take me home to Auntie Em! There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. Professor, I’m pretty sure Gilligan just fucked that monkey!”
My family couldn’t take that … again.
You’re not kidding. “Dad bods” are a real thing. Chubby guys with their chubby chubbies are in.
What a great country we live in!
I am quite certain this is a passing fad brought on by the tireless efforts of Hollywood publicists employed by hot middle-aged actors that put on a bunch of weight for meaty roles, but found it a little too difficult to take all of those pesky paunchy pounds back off again after the director yelled “Cut! Print. That’s a wrap.” It’ll run its course. Women will eventually decide this whole “I love not having to compete with my man for looks. Dad bods take the pressure off of me!” thing is bullshit and it’ll be right back to “You can’t be too rich or too thin.” Nevertheless, I fully intend to ride this fleeting fashion as if a surfer dude taking advantage of post-hurricane waves for as long as it lasts.
However, as I sat on my ample ass during the observance of the recent Father’s Day that entered into the history books somewhat unceremoniously in consideration of the mass quantities of stout ale and numerous spicy Italian sausages I consumed, the thought occurred to me that I might be pushing the trend-envelope a bit too much. You see, I don’t really have what most would consider to be a “dad bod.” I’m more like a guy with a dad bod who ate another few guys with dad bods at an all-you-can-eat dad bod buffet.
Am I saying I’m fat? Fuck no! I’ll NEVER admit that! Fat guys don’t get laid enough. However, I am saying that I have a— Drumroll please. — SUPER DAD BOD! Yes, it’s the Attack of the Super Dad Bod. Because if chicks are digging on the spare-tire set this summer as the ultimate sexy-time partners, then we Orson Wellesian-types will be seen as the ultimate nonstop sex machines! So watch out Las Vegas cheap-food-on-endless-spreads-to-try-to-keep-you-close-to-the-gambling-floor casino restaurants. I’m comin’ to break the bank. No, you can keep your vaults locked. I’m not after your cash. That’s not the type of Vegas “whale” you gotta worry about here. I’m talking about the huge industrial fridges in your kitchens, baby!
“What? You’re trying to lose twenty or thirty pounds at Weight Watchers? HA! I just had an insulin pump installed, motherfucker!”
So ladies, I’m all yours; the ultra-definitive dad bod. But remember, if you try pulling any of that picking food off my plate crap at the pub, I’m kicking your ass to the curb. After all, a man has to keep his looks up.
© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio All Rights Reserved.