Ducky quacks from the wilds of the internet:

So theres a guy that comes to my job (comic/hobby shop)He’s huge and perfect and cuddly and all that girl junk, and we’ve got the same taste in comics, video games, and action figures. At the risk of sounding conceited im not terrible to look at but he barely talks to me no matter how much I try. My question is How do I ask him out when he doesn’t make eye contact with me?

Hey, does anyone know how I can gently break the news to someone that they may not be as attractive as they think? I’m kidding. But maybe not. Who knows? I don’t know what you look like, so I’ll just take you at your word.

There are several possibilities as to why he doesn’t make eye contact or talk with you. He could be dating or married already, he could be gay, he could just not be attracted to you for whatever reason. He could just be a quiet guy who doesn’t like talking to shop clerks. Who knows? It’s been my experience that people — especially fat dudes — that frequent comic and hobby shops aren’t the most socially apt folks on Earth and nothing would shock me less than him just being too awkward to think there’s a possibility of you or anyone being interested in him.

But really, your question is very simple to answer: JUST ASK HIM THE FUCK OUT. I mean, shit. There’s no secret. Next time he’s in, corner him when he’s reading the latest issue of Marville* and say, “Hey! How’s it going?  I’m making a stupid joke about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or what-the-fuck-ever we comic book-slash-video game nerds joke about! Doom II was great! So look, I think you’re cute and I’d like to go out on a date with you. Here’s my number and if you feel like going out, give me a call. No pressure!” That’s it. Then the ball is in his court. I know for damned sure that, when I was single, were a girl to come up to me and say that, I’d be sold.

Sorry there’s not some magic secret answer, but look at this as a learning opportunity: If you want to ask someone a question, ask someone a question. It’s a good policy to have in life. Much better than the whole suffer in silence and hope that the laws of physics will cease to exist and somehow homeboy will just be told by the universe that you want to make out with him.

* I Googled “bad comic books” and apparently you dorks think that Marville was some seriously bad shit. But bad like bad, not bad like good. Christ I’m white.

I’m assuming that there are people who are bothered by this. Like with the “pink slime” hamburger menace that’s sweeping supermarkets throughout the country, there is a sudden knee-jerk revulsion lately toward anything processed, as if processed foods have ever been produced through anything other than…well, a process. And science is a big part of that process. See, there isn’t some asshole neighbor lady growing strawberries out back behind your local Starbucks in her community garden, graciously donating them to her local coffee concern, where they can be muddled by hand and blended with farm-fresh milk to make your strawberry whatever. There are thousands of these fucking coffee places. Just fucking thousands. Scale dictates that science and industry have to create something a little more productive if there is a profit to be made, let alone feed America’s insatiable appetite for whatever weird fucking combination of ingredients has yet to be sung about by a cartoon or celebrity or small-titted magazine cover.

Here’s the thing: we’ve all, ALL OF US, eaten bug corpses thousands of times. THOUSANDS! Ever had anything red that came out of a box, bottle, or wrapper? Chances are you’ve crammed pounds of liquid beetle carcasses into your food-hole over the years. The question is: what is the problem exactly? Is it because they’re insects? Poor insects were bred and butchered just so some asshole fiddling with an iPhone can have a psychologically pleasing pink tint to his berry-like milk beverage? Or is it simply the idea that you are eating the ground remains of an insect? Does it even matter?

Rather than answer those questions, all I really want to point out is that there is a lot of shit happening in our world, just about every moment in fact. While it’s not possible to care about it all, or maybe even most of it, whatever portion of some you are able to achieve in your daily wanderings between eating, shitting, sleeping, and sex, maybe be a little more fucking selective in what you choose to dedicate precious oxygen. War. Healthcare. Christina Hendricks’ fantastic rack. There are three things of at least slightly more import than the fourth-quarter notion that scientists might have been tricking our brains and bodies with chemistry lo these many years.

Besides, you’d think the whole-grain crowd would just be happy that the stuff is a natural, organic ingredient. Fucking fickle nitwits.

The self-nicknamed “A Fellow Fat Guy” writes:

As of last week, I can no longer see my genitals… How do I solve this awkward problem?

I guess I’m going to have to clarify: By “I can no longer see my genitals,” do you mean that when you look down, your gut is now large enough to preclude seeing your genitals from a an overhead vantage point? Or do you mean that you’re standing in front of the mirror and your junk just appears to no longer be in its appropriate place (i.e., your crotch)? Because if it’s the latter, then you should get yourself to a doctor posthaste as that is not something with which I can help you.

If it’s just that your gut is so big that it’s obscuring your dick when you look down, then that’s fucking easy: The official Ask a Fat Guy™ Diet! And I’m going to give it away for free to all of you. It’s fairly involved, but I’ll try and simplify it for you all in a handy ordered list

1. Eat fewer calories
2. Exercise

You still with me? Good.

See, although I’ve sort of settled fairly comfortably into this whole “fat guy” thing, it’s not really a very healthy lifestyle choice. Also, I’m getting married in September, so I’ve got something for which I’d like to at least make an attempt to look decent for. So I’m currently in the process of becoming a less-fat guy. And so far? So good. I’ve managed to lose more than twenty pounds since the end of January, which is to say I’m going down at the rate of about ten pounds per month. And there was no secret involved. I just started paying attention to what and how much I was eating and choosing to eat less. That’s it. There’s no secret. None at all, in fact. (Okay, maybe there’s a tiny secret: You need to work out what your basal metabolic rate is — the amount of calories you burn in an average day — and eat fewer calories than that. For me, it’s about 2,900 calories per day, but I’m a tall, bulky beast of a man. Yours will likely be lower, as I’m likely taller and broader than you.)

Don’t bother with any sort of low carb, shit beach, Mediterranean paleo or what-the-fuck-ever bullshit. Just eat less and exercise more. That’s it. That’s the secret to healthy and sustainable weight loss.

See, here’s the thing with all of the various fad and food restricted diets: They largely do work insofar as you will lose weight, but it isn’t sustainable. Do you think that you can manage to go the rest of your life without eating starch? I know I sure as shit can’t. Would it be nice to lose a shitload more weight in a god damned hurry? Absolutely! But there’s no fucking way at all that I’m not going to eat potatoes, bread, corn, sugar, or any of the other deliciously carbtastic foods. Not going to happen. But I am perfectly capable of limiting myself to 2,900 calories a day for like, nine months to lose weight and trying not to make all of them liquor, then permanently limiting myself to about 3,000 calories per day — that’s both easy and realistic. I’m also capable of hitting the gym to speed things up and make my lungs and heart work better. I don’t want to, but I’m capable of it.

See how easy that is? Great! Eat less, exercise more. Good luck on seeing your cock again.

Talk to your doctor about losing weight. I’m neither a medical doctor nor a nutritionist. But I do hold a Ph.D. in Funk. (I do not hold a Ph.D. in Funk or any other field.)

Reader Feel asks, “How do you accept yourself and become confident?”

My first recommendation would be to avoid advice from people on the internet. They tend to be either full of shit, trying to sell you something, or part of a federal law enforcement pedophilia ring task force. Having said that, there are a few things I would offer which should get you well on your way:

1) Never accept anything anyone tells you…ever.

2) Demand your rights and hold firm to your opinions, generally in as severe and piercing a manner as possible.

3) Make random, snap judgments.

4) Be unforgivable.

5) Use complicated, mutual-syllabic words incorrectly, yet be consistent in your inexactitude. That way, people dumber than you will be impressed by your vocabulary and think you erudite. Conversely, your intellectual betters (or at least those who might question or correct you) will begin to question whether or not you may be right. Loudly ravenous confidence works that way, especially against people who have nothing else going for them but intellect.

6) Most of all, hate and love sloppily — in equal measure.

Those are just a few gems I can offer. At some point, Feel, you are just going to have to find what pathology works most effectively against your friends, family, and co-workers. After all, winners are read through the psychological havoc left in their wake.

italiadude writes:

Who invented the hot dog, and what exactly is in a hot dog wiener?

When the hell did Ask a Fat Guy become, “Ask a fat guy some shit I could find out on Wikipedia?” I mean, seriously. Our stock-in-trade is advice. Advice. You didn’t ask for any advice. You could have asked, “What’s the best way to prepare hot dogs?” Or, “I’m fat and love hot dogs, what do I do?” Or even, “I have a hot dog stuck in me. I don’t want to say where. But how can I get it out?” Oh well. What the hell. I’ve got a few minutes.

Anyway, hot dogs. What a subject. Oh boy howdy. This certainly hasn’t been covered several times on The History Channel and Food Network. It’s not like you can turn on the television to just about any random channel on Labor Day or Independence Day and learn everything I’m about to tell you. (Shit, maybe I’m being ethnocentric. Your name is italiadude, so maybe you’re in Italy. Okay, sorry. You probably don’t get Food Network. I’ll lay off.) First and foremost: They’re fucking delicious, as are most sausages. And they’ve existed in some form or another for about 600 years. Ever since sausages existed, people have realized that bread plus salty meat equals I’m getting drunk tonight.

Modern hot dogs were invented by a Japanese man named Takeru Kobayashi. Kobayashi sprang forth fully formed during a mild eruption from Mount Fuji’s lesser-known neighbor, Mount ソーセージ, and promptly moved to Coney Island in 1870, where he changed his name to Charles Feltman and opened up a hot dog stand. And ever since, New Yorkers won’t shut the hell up about how much better their tubes of emulsified meat — and their hot dogs — are than everyone else’s.

The name “hot dog,” of course, was a result of the original source of meat for the sausages: Guys named Doug. The “hot” part of the name is fairly explanatory, and “Dog” is simply a corruption of “Doug,” which occurred as an attempt to distance the industry from its cannibalistic origins.

Nowadays, guys named Doug are in fairly short supply, and they’re in heavy demand for things like podcasts and movies in the “Super Size Me… with pot” genre. The industry has generally switched to pork, beef or a mixture of the two, with a healthy* dose of fat. Poultry-based hot dogs, using chicken and/or turkey are common, too. The meat and fat are emulsified — it’s ground up into a slurry — then jammed in a non-edible casing (generally — there are some brands that use an edible casing, but the vast majority don’t) which is made out of the dreams and regrets of guys who end up managing national chain electronics stores, cooked, and then the casing is stripped off. Good times. I’m not sure at what point during the manufacturing process they add crack cocaine, because hot dogs are fucking addictive.

So there you go, italiadude! You could have Googled it yourself, but you chose to rely on me and I think you’ve made the right move. Best of luck to you.

* In this context, “healthy” may not mean what you think it means

chubbydj writes:

Do all fat guys innie when they are soft

How many fat guys’ dicks do you think I’ve seen?

Thanks for playing and watch this space for new junk happening soon. (Soon in terms of geologic time, obviously.)

Couldn’t a Human Centipede Work This Way?—–It would seem that a possible solution might be something up your line: Bariatric surgery—a gastric bypass of 75% of the first partner’s small intestine which absorbs the food into the bloodstream, then a 50% bypass of the second partner’s. Thus, the first person could only absorb 25% of what she ate, then the next could only absorb half of the rest, assuring enough nutrient to the last. This would also make the first partner, the only active one constantly starving, causing her to eat immense amounts which would be passed not to her body but to the others in a constant flow. The first could be easily trained through her hunger to perform as required and to voraciously seek and overeat food.

I like you, Sarah.

You’ve got ideas. And not just “ideas,” Sarah. You’ve got ideas.

I’m not really sure how to respond to this particular letter, beyond saying that I have no idea. It’s as reasonable as any suggestion regarding the creation of a human centipede I’ve seen, and I suppose that’s saying something (about what, I have no idea). Until the research is in on human centipede-ing, I suppose we’re all just going to have to make do with conjecture.

So I guess, by all means. Move to Germany (or Florida, if you don’t have a passport) and give it a whack. Write when you’ve got it sorted.

Best of luck!

P.S. I’d really like a video of you doing your best performance of the, “Yes, yes, feed her!” scene from the movie. Can you get on that? Thanks!

Let me preface this post by saying that I’ve just consumed an entire can of Four Loko Fruit Punch Flavor in the space of about forty-five minutes. Ironically, while I drank it, I watched the first episode of season two of  “Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution.” So if this review devolves into gibberish, that would be why.

I never drank Four Loko in the caffeine days. It’s not because I’m “better than that” or too hoity-toity to drink a malt beverage — 2001 Me’s association with Olde English 800 and Rainier Ale can certainly attest to that. It’s simply because even booze-loving me could never resign myself to drinking a beverage called Four Loko that was so readily embraced by the frat boy culture. I did, however, drink Sparks both orange and black, B^E (aka B-to-the-E, aka Bud Extra) and more-than-I’m-comfortable-admitting Red Bull and vodkas. Suffice it to say, I’m no stranger to sugary, caffeinated cheap booze.

When cracking open a Four Loko Fruit Punch Flavor, I’m reminded of the smell of a women’s restroom at a club. It’s a definite fruity smell, like a mix of cheap perfume and deodorizer mixed with several dozen cheap beers spilled on the floor.

When initially tasting a Four Loko Fruit Punch Flavor, I’m reminded of a Hi-C fruit punch that’s been poured over a bum’s ass crack. As I continued running my tongue along Roscoe’s anal lips, my brain became further addled by the 12% alcohol and the flavor became distinctly less hoboesque and far more I-don’t-care-what-it-tastes-like-just-keep-making-the-pain-stop-esque.

And that 12% number really is key. It’s 12% alcohol. A 23.5 ounce can contains as much alcohol as more-than four of your average pale American lager beers. And at $2.69 per can, that’s an incredible value! At my stores, PBR is 16¢/oz, and Four Loko is 11¢/oz. And the Four Loko contains more than twice the alcohol per ounce as PBR. That means that on a dollars-to-drunk basis, it costs just over a third as much to get drunk on Four Loko as it does on PBR. One third! 37.5%! That’s insane. That is… Loko.

Now… is it worth it? I really have no idea. After one can, I’m definitely solidly buzzed. But it’s not exactly a pleasant buzz. And I have no doubt that if I were to drink another can, the hangover would be mule kickingly bad.

So I guess what I’m saying is that if you’re hard up for cash, buy Four Loko. But if you’re not, it’s probably in your best interest to buy something high class like Pabst Blue Ribbon. And for the record, I fucking love Pabst Blue Ribbon.

To put a finer point on what I mean, people want their fucking FEMA money, but great bearded Zeus help you if you even fart something that sounds vaguely like two consenting adults wanting to commit marriage upon each other AND have matching sexual organs. Not sure I’ll ever quite understand the resistance. But the good thing about life is that death comes for us all, and most of that petty ignorance tends to die off too, leaving us the next petty ignorance to climb into society’s brutal gaze.

A lot of odd turns brings you to a place of specific geography. And it isn’t always an easy thing to identify the reasons why. At times such as these, I find it helpful to remember how very shitty so many people have it in this world of ours. Honestly, when you really break it down, most of the planet lives in such pain, bankruptcy, weariness, and sheer terror that problems like “my Visa bill is too high” or “Sarah Palin is kind of a twat” don’t really rank up there too highly in the whole food-shelter-safety paradigm. I guess what I’m trying to say is: we all have problems. I thank sweet Allah that an oil leak in my Cutlass or heightened seasonal allergies are about the worst of mine at the moment. This really is a great fucking country.

So, more POW! BAM! SMOOSH! BIFF! to come friends. Same bat time, same bat channel.