The Shape of Tits to Come

H.G. Wells, damn his Nostradamus-like vision, got it horrifyingly right. The future not only is bleak and controlled by gay looking robots, but it’s fat. With a crazy Chilean Grandma that forced a dozen meals down my throat everyday I developed an out of control eating disorder that pushed my body from Dream Boat to Dream Tug Boat in only three months. The Farm Phase is now over—I loved it and could easily have stayed longer, but within another three months the full transition to Arse Bagged Gringo would have been complete and irreversible. Now that I am On The Road, I plan on getting back to The Body with nature’s greatest eating regulator: Beer, and pints of it. All this Fat business was totally unexpected, I had imagined that after three months on the farm I would be a Ripped One Man Army, only let down by an expected, vomit-in-the-mouth-like farmers tan. But I was wrong, horribly, horribly wrong.


This horrendous image would have been reality in three more months — I fed the facts into my Future Reading Mac Widget and this open handed hit to the face is what I got. I had plans to do push-ups everyday during my Farm Period when I woke up or just before going to bed. I swore to myself (quite strongly) that I would do it and to not do it would make me a massive pussy. I even swore on more powerful things to ensure I did it. I knew that swearing to God or his tradie son would be as fruitless as swearing to that toothless old ‘human crease’ peasant in the next town or his bitch-titted, cross-eyed grandson. So I made the foolish mistake of swearing on my Killer Six Pack that if, after three months of Farm Life, I hadn’t achieved the predicted Fat Guns And Sweet-As Chest Pack Combo Set then I could kiss the sixer goodbye. And guess what fucking happened? But dammit man, there were just too many hurdles to overcome:

ONE: I couldn’t do push-ups before I went to bed because I usually had only just finished gorging myself and simply bending over forced open that little throat valve thing letting a little semi-digested, burny sopaipilla back into the mouth.

TWO: Exercise in the morning? Let’s be serious, when I wake up in the morning I’d rather make out with one of the dirty farm piglets. I barely have enough energy to knock out a slash let alone chesties.

THREE: I could have done them outside whenever I liked, yes, that is true. But to get caught by my Chilean Grandfather lying face down behind the chicken shed panting would have required an explanation I don’t think I could construct in Spanish, resulting in an admission-of-guilt-like shrug and even more embarrassing dinner table silences.

FOUR: Why not do them in the safety of your room then, I hear you ask? Well, smart arse, this house is made from wood that is at most 2cm thick meaning that if a spider farts in a cupboard on the other side of the house, not only can you hear and feel it, but you can smell it too. If I was to knock out my former Glory Number of 80 push-ups (and I’m talking straight back, nose to the floor type to any of you dick-bags that think you can do way more of your Fairy Taebo Push-ups), upstairs in my room, with the door shut, the odd mixture of squeaking floorboards and heavy breathing would have upset my Catholic Chilean Grandparents no end.

See what I mean? My hands were tied! As a result I found myself foiled by myself with the devastating outcome of Farm Fed Love Handles and some sort of Skin Blanket obscuring my once Mega Six Pack (that was well on it’s way to an Advance Level Eight Pack).


Men's Health: The Man Abroad Body. 
THIS was what was supposed to happen after three months working like a bitch on the farm (except that gunshot wound of a belly button — it’s like a fucking walk-in pantry!). The plan was to roll into Buenos Aires with a six pack you could wash clothes on and a pair of Man Plates than you could herd cattle with and reap the plethora of rewards (free drinks, random high-fives in the street, beating off chicks with my Farm Fashioned Fighting Sticks and more).


But have a look at this for God’s sake — I noted a normal Tuesday intake. Sure it was an exceptional day and I did a tough-as three hour bike ride but Bitch Please. Back then I could have eaten Oprah under the table. If you can't read it, click it for largeness moron, and prepare to be amazed.


I was staring down the Barrel of Fatness with no hope of escape. The future looked big and bleak. What would I have done after the Farm Phase? Taking my fat arse to Buenos Aires was not an option. I even considered moving to Hollywood to capitalise on my forthcoming obesity, earning millions as an the on-screen subject of ridicule. If you're going to be a fat fucker, you may as well be rich. But would they see my remarkable inner talent or just use me for my entertaining Man Breasts and Kodiak Bear Breadbasket? I can almost see it now with my amazing powers of foreskin; The League of Extraordinarily Fat Gentlemen — myself and various other untalented Obesitians (that's what fatties are called right?) driving around in a (reinforced) truck solving crime in between butter-loaded meals.

But fortunately, with the Man Abroad South American Odyssey Part II behind me, and with glorious farm bread out of reach, I am already returning to my former Splendor (aided by the substantial bundle I dropped during the earthquake).