I’ve decided to share my latest book (The All-Important, Well-Fed, Giant White Man) with my followers here, free of charge, one chapter at a time. So… Where were we on this read-along… Oh, yes…
Chapter 19: Ratted-Out By My Kid
And just that quickly, another short and pointless little story from a different time in my life, with an even more pointless moral attached to it. The year: 2012.
One of the big three networks (who shall not be named so that I don’t get the skivvies sued off of me) was putting me through a rigorous screening process as they sized me up for a role on a reality television show which would compete with that TV show The Bachelor.
Yes, I know, I’m not Bachelor material. I don’t have chiseled abs, 7% body fat, or the ability to make 2 dozen women trip over their four-inch heels in an attempt to catch my overly eager eye. But this wasn’t The Bachelor. It was a show to compete with The Bachelor. Their angle was that they wanted to have real, every day people on it that were “somewhat good looking but not impossibly good looking.” They had recruited me to audition, but they didn’t choose me.
I know that means I wasn’t even good looking enough to be considered somewhat good looking. I choose to believe that it means I was too good looking for their show. I’m pretty sure the show never actually aired.
In the wake of that, I went and paid a doctor to suck a bunch of fat out of my body. I needed to be camera ready for the next big opportunity!
I told myself all sorts of little lies like that in order to justify it. Really, I was tired of my trouble areas, and needed a non-vain reason to get it done. This was perfect. I could blame society and impossible television standards. It was a business move, nothing else.
The procedure went terribly. Don’t ever get liposuction. A better route would be to grab a large meat tenderizer and beat the fat out of yourself. Or, you know, get on a treadmill. Either option will be fine. Another option is to just be okay with your little fat pockets that won’t go away. Only the following people don’t naturally have them: Olympic runners, teenage bitches (of either gender), professional ballet dancers, and for some reason monkey trainers. Everyone else has at least a handful somewhere on their body that they wish was gone.
Now, I don’t want to disrespect all those people who have been hit by buses, so I won’t use that metaphor. Instead, I will say that after the surgery it looked like I had been run over by a stagecoach. That shouldn’t offend anyone. I gained 20 lbs. just from swelling. I was black and purple and weird and frumpy. Picture a giant earthworm that was recently stepped on. Repeatedly.
This lasted for about two weeks, and Noah got to see every bit of me. He was very curious about it, and I was very honest with him about what I had done.
For obvious reasons, I wanted to keep it a secret. People couldn’t know that I was medically altering my body. I’m above that, don’t you know. And so, I counseled heavily with five-year-old Noah that he was not to tell anyone under any circumstances.
Like the good son that he is, he promised to keep my secret.
Two days later, his mom showed up at the door to take him away. I stood as far from her as possible, draped in ultra-baggy clothing to hide the lacey pink compression suit I was being made to wear underneath (they were fresh out of the ones for guys).
She came in the house and stood in the doorway while Noah put his shoes on. “Did you have fun?” she asked him.
Without ever taking a single breath, it just began bubbling out of him, like a pot of oatmeal that you forget to keep your eye on. “Mom, guess what! Dad went to a doctor and they stuck these big sword things in him and they sucked out his fat and now he’s all bloody and black and purple and swollen and super fat and he can barely walk!”
“That’s the last time I tell you a secret,” I grumbled.
“Sorry, Dad! I forgot I wasn’t supposed to tell.”
Bless that kid’s heart. He conveniently forgot his promise a lot. By the end of the week my sister knew. My mother knew. My best friend knew. His school teacher knew. And at least a dozen other people knew as well.
Pointless moral of the story: kids don’t keep secrets, so don’t share your dirt with them.
And with that, we’ll get back to it…
Dan Pearce, from my book: The All-Important, Well-Fed, Giant White Man
Last Chapter: Driving Around Town Breaking Windows
Next up: My Punch Drunk Sister
If you would like to start from the beginning, or catch up on a missed chapter, you’ll find all the chapters I’ve published so far by clicking here.
Of course, this book is for sale on paperback, hard cover, or as an e-book. If you find yourself unable to live without a copy, I would *so* very much appreciate you ordering one. You can find it on Amazon here (paperback and Kindle). Or hardcover here. Or Nook here. Or iBooks here.