Dear Backside, It's Time For a Talk

Dear Backside, It's Time For a Talk

Tokus,

It's time we sit down and have an in-depth heart to cheeks talk. First off, I want to thank you for the buttress you have given me during my endless hours of gathering. Your butterball composition has cushioned my tailbone more than efficiently. It is time, though, for me to butt-in and say enough is enough.

The comments I receive from men about you, Derriere, are quit disheartening. You jiggle like Jell-O a great deal and it garners their attention. I know you think it's funny. Frankly I'm tired of being the butt of your jokes. They simply don't find you attractive. I hear way too often, "Look at the hams on that honey," as we wobble by. Bystanders clear a path in fear we might knock them down as we sway side to side.

Now, don't cry. I do enough of that for the both of us. This craving Big Macs, Moosetracks ice cream, T-bone steaks, and white chocolate cappuccino is going to have to stop. Can't you see yourself growing. Don't the binding of the clothes I wear smother you down there. I refuse to buy any larger pants so your going to have to cooperate with me. Skirts are out of the question because I'm afraid we would find people camping out underneath. No, you can't blame it all on the stomach. I know you two are in secret cahoots together. That's because the stomach sends it directly to you.

What about the times I have had to cram you into those uncomfortable theater-style seats at the gym. Then there was that time the handsome young man had to rescue us by giving me a good yank because you refused to budge. Do you know how humiliating that was for me? All you could do was whine and moan about how it smarted. Yes, I know your sensitive. I saw the bruises.

The next time I go work out I will have no complaining from you. I don't want you pulling your usual tricks of pretending your too tired. No messages of, " I'm a sore keister." I swear, I bet you complain louder than any butt around the following day after exercising. I'm going to have to invent a butt muzzle so I want have to listen to you. Yes, I know it would be nice to have someone massage you. For now, though, you'll just have to settle for the jets in the hot tub.

If you would simply shed some of your posterior we might actually find someone to massage you for us. Yes, I've heard that phrase, "More cushion for the pushin." I don't see anyone waiting around for the opportunity. Do you?

I have to emphasize how you have limited my wardrobe. I can't wear any of my good polyester pants anymore because of your cellulite dimples showing through in all their glory. I finally had to throw away those Daisy Duke shorts I had been saving to wear when I lost part of you. Let's face it. You could sit a plate on top of you and eat dinner you protrude so expansively. I know you think that's useful, but I have to disagree.

It's time for an intervention. I'm going to start eating lettuce and tomatoes, and carrots, and your going to like it. Don't start that crying again. Your going to make me cry. I don't like them either but something must be done for you, Hiney. Your health is becoming an issue. The depression from lack of touch is killing you. Can't you sense it? I know it's killing me. Cheer up! We can waddle and starve through this disaster together.

When your shaped like a heart and a penny can be bounced off your muscular behind, you'll thank me. I promise. You might even get your massage then.